


A Stark Out of Place

by Alektos



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AC 289, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, F/M, Family of Choice, Female version of Tony Stark gets blown up and lands in Westeros, GRRM made me wait three books before there were dragons so y'all can wait too, Gen, Graphic Violence, Greyjoy Rebellion, I'm making this up as I go a long, M/M, NOW RATED MATURE FOR LANGUAGE, Not sure where this lands in MCU canon, Rated for Language only, There be dragons here... eventually, also rated for implied underage, book canon, heck yeah, mix of book and tv series canon, now featuring MORE BEAT DOWNS OF ENTITLED MEN, sorta - Freeform, will add characters as they come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-22 00:25:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 44,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11955846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alektos/pseuds/Alektos
Summary: Natasha Antonia Stark, former leader of the Avengers, gets blown up. Again. Magic is involved. Now she's in Westeros before the song of ice and fire is sung, alongside a young Ned Stark, a teenage Tyrion Lannister, and a host of characters both familiar and not. With no way home and no path forward, Toni does her best to survive.





	1. A Stark Out of Place

A STARK OUT OF PLACE

* * *

She doesn’t remember what happened. Only battle, and pain, and then the blinding white of snow. It’s wrong. Impossible. But snow is now packed loosely around her calves, and icy wind bites at Toni’s unprotected face, so really this is only  _ implausible _ .

God, does she hate probability. And snow. 

There’s no time to think. In this weather, without a phone or her suit—she will die within the hour if she can’t make or find shelter. She shouldn’t have been in the field to begin with, but when Norse Gods erupt out of the sewers below 42nd street, what else can you do but try to fight?

Toni pulls the designer scarf from her neck and uses it to cover half her nose and mouth. 

Fuck, she needs to move. Her team is waiting. She can’t feel the bruises on her flank anymore. A gust of wind hits her, and Toni thinks, briefly, that she might just die here. Why does she always end up like this? Maybe it  _ is _ her time to die, but does she have to do it completely  _ alone? _

She trundles on. Her ribs ache, and then she’s so cold that nothing aches much. The snow falls heavily, and Toni finds herself slowing down as the wind howls.

It’s cold. Her energy is fading fast. Toni can hardly think, but she keeps moving. She’ll keep going until she can’t.

Eventually, she can’t.

She collapses beneath tall pine trees. It’s so cold, she can’t feel anything hurting anymore. Her vision goes dark.

* * *

As if to spite her, she awakens to warmth, light, and unholy pain. Toni inhales more deeply, and shutters, twitches, bites back a scream. Her ribs positively  _ burn _ , and it takes her a minute to focus on her surroundings instead of the pain. 

A cottage. Somewhere remote, rural. The fire crackling beside her is almost unbearably hot, but a draft floats beneath the wooden door to steal away precious heat. She turns her eyes to the old, gray-faced woman puttering about.

“Hello,” Toni says tentatively, and the woman turns to her with a kindly, if not an attractive smile. It’s enough, knowing she’s not alone. 

Toni breaks bread with the woman’s family, a veritable  _ horde _ of gray-faced children and a tired old farmer, her husband. There isn’t much bread to share, but they feed her anyway. The farmer speaks quietly to her that evening and tells her more of the world. That winter hasn’t come for fifteen years, but the trees are finally turning red. 

The hours pass in a haze. Toni is tired, and on fire, but she gives little away as she quietly gains a better understanding of her situation. 

It’s not a good situation. 

This is so much worse than just being alone. She is  _ stranded _ . There is no way easy way home. Not even a suit of armor could help her escape a prison without walls. This place is desolate and backwards. She won’t survive in a world like this as Toni Stark. Her wits are the only thing she can still use. 

“So, what brings you to the Barrowlands, my dear?” the woman asks her again, and this time, Toni doesn’t try to deflect. 

“I’m looking for work. The storm caught me unprepared.”

One of the older kids frowns. “What, like  _ women’s  _ work? Barrowtown is just a few miles—”

His mother smacks the back of his head automatically, starting a short argument that she wins. 

Toni rolls her eyes and turns to the husband. “Are there any good blacksmiths around here?”

The man raises an eyebrow. “If there were good blacksmiths around, maybe I wouldn’t have to repair my tools every two months. The only good one in the North is Mikken, and he’s the blacksmith of Winterfell itself.” He peers at her, curious. “Why do you ask?”

Toni knows what she looks like. Or, what she  _ doesn’t _ look like. “Work,” she said shortly, defiantly, and doesn’t bat an eye when the whole family erupts in disbelief and amusement. 

The old woman is the only one that seems unsurprised. When Toni stares at her, she shrugs. “I’ve never seen a woman like you before. Scarred hands, scarred body.” Toni shifts, uncomfortable at the reminder that this stranger had to strip and change her after Toni collapsed in the snow. “You talk like a lady, sometimes, but you’re not. Built like a bull as well. Even if you know shit about smithing, you’ll be better than the shit smith in Torrhen’s Square, I can tell.”

Toni grins and finds no fault in the old woman’s words. 

She leaves the next morning, with vague directions and a few scraps of food. The oldest boy, the one that’s been giving her looks of longing ever since Toni awoke, shyly hands her a small, brittle knife. “It’s not safe for a lady to travel alone, but Pa says we can’t go with you, so—”

He’s about thirteen, skinny and short. They live between Barrowtown and Torrhen’s Square, in the middle of nowhere. Toni doesn’t remember his name but is so abruptly struck by the urge to hug him that she  _ does _ . 

She won’t remember him, but a selfish part of her wants to make sure he remembers her. “Thank you, but I’m not a lady.” Toni turns away and doesn’t look back. 


	2. Torrhen's Square

The smith at Torrhen’s Square is tall, barrel-chested, and mean-spirited. His smithy is spartan and muggy, but that’s a relief in this part of the continent. It’s cold as fuck already, and apparently, it’s still summer. Toni walks up to him, a calculating look on her face.

He squints at her with icy-blue eyes. “You lost or somethin’?” He guesses after a moment.

“No. Are you the only smith here?” She asks bluntly.

The smith grunts. “Aye. Are you needin’ something t’be fixed, m’lady?”

Toni shakes her head and smiles brightly. “Do you have an apprentice?”

He frowns, suspicious. “I ain’t wastin’ my time on none of that. What d’you want?”

“I want to work for you,” Toni answers. “I need a job, and I’ve worked in a smithy before.”

He bursts into loud, roguish laughter. “ _You_ want t’work  _here?_ HA!”

“Yes,” Toni says patiently. “What’s your name, smith?”

“Jorgen,” the man chortles. “What’s your name, li’l lady?”

“Toni,” she replies, stepping into the smithy. She looks around, thinking. “You don’t need to pay me much. Just enough for me to keep a room at the inn.” Jorgen’s laughter subsides, and he fixes her with a befuddled look. “It must be difficult to work alone. Let me help.”

“I ain’t lettin’ no  _woman_ apprentice f’r me,” Jorgen says, more incredulous than upset. “Yeh must be outta yer damn mind!”

“Then I won’t apprentice,” Toni concedes quickly. “Just let me help. As an assistant. A stewardess.” She isn’t sure she’s using that word correctly, but Jorgen peers at her, considering.

He grunts again and gestures with a flick of his head towards a bench. “Bring up tha’ toolbox f’r me.”

Toni does, hefting the wooden thing up to chest level and carrying it across the room easily. She sets it down and raises her eyebrows. “I don’t know all the names, but I know you need  _this,_ ” She picks up an embossing hammer, “to reshape that pauldron. And you’ll need to cover it in leather since it’s so fucking cold here.”

He looks at the half-formed armor on his anvil, and then he looks at Toni, frowning harder. “Hm. I can’t go explainin’ ev’rything to yeh, woman.”

“I learn fast,” Toni inserts, which is a gross understatement. If she wants to figure something out, her memory is near eidetic. “Won’t ask too many questions.”

The smith huffs and snatches a pair of bolt tongs from the toolbox. “Put down yeh bags, then. And stoke th’ fire.”

She grins. Jorgen sees her grin and growls like an old, disgruntled dog.

* * *

Jorgen is a terrible smith. But he won’t hear it from Toni. She works for next to nothing, fetching things, running errands—a stewardess more than an apprentice. Toni lets it go on for a few days until she familiarizes herself with the tools and mediums. Jorgen is begrudgingly impressed with her ability to pick up the terms, but that’s all the reaction she gets from him, the old goat.

The smith goes about his business, rather apathetic about her presence. On her fourth night, Toni rekindles the forge alone.

She’s no amateur. If Toni can forge a suit of armor in a cave, she can forge whatever the hell she wanted here, if she got her hands on the right materials. But there are no titanium alloys or blowtorches to make use of, nor does she have the money to spend on personal projects.

So she starts with swords. She spends hours heating and folding steel; hammering and sharpening blades. She re-crafts the pommels Jorgen made that morning and burnishes them until she can see her face in the crude metal.

It’s no  _suit_. It’s not the sort of weaponry she likes. But it’s as close as Toni can get in this world, and it calms her mind.

Jorgen is a terrible smith and probably a sore loser, but Toni shows him what she made anyway and tells him they’ll make a hell of a lot more coin if he let her  _work_.

He gapes like a fish and his second chin wobbles in anger, but Toni passes him a few more coins. She’ll take the loss, for now, if he just gives her the chance to keep smithing. Jorgen is sensible, surely he knows this’ll work out for both of them in the end.

And yet...

“I can’t, lass,” he says, glaring at the coins on the table between them. He’s still holding her sword, admiring the smooth work.

“Why not?” Toni demands, surprised. She’d been certain he’d come around. “I do good work, you see that now.”

“Aye, you do. So I can’t sell it. It’s not my work.”

“No one’s gonna buy it from  _me,_ ” Toni bursts, suddenly frustrated. “Jorgen, I can’t sell it as my own. Not unless I bring every bloody Northerner into this shop and they can see me hammer out steel blades for themselves. Even then, half of ‘em won’t believe me.”

Jorgen scowls. “Do you take me for a liar? I may not be highborn or nothin’ but I have my pride. My  _honor_. I won’t do it, and I forbid you selling it under my name as well!” He snaps, almost getting to his feet. Then he settles back into his seat and places the sword on the table.

Panic rises in her throat. If she can’t do this, what does she have left? If he won’t let her work, what  _can_ she do? Toni takes a deep, shuddering breath. “If I can’t sell it as your work, what the hell do I do?”

He scoffs, and his blue eyes pierce her with their gaze. “We’ll tell the bloody  _truth_ , girlie, and let ‘em come watch if they don’ believe it. It’s real, and they’ll all have to fuckin’ accept it jus’ like I have.”

The words strike her like lightning. Before she can catch herself, tears prick at her eyes. Toni stares at the old smith across from her, and cannot bring herself to speak.

It’s been so long since she’s had someone so firmly set in her corner. So convinced of her abilities. She never figured Jorgen, a random blacksmith from a strange, ugly world, would be more supportive than her own bastard of a father.

He scowls again. “Am I  _clear_ , woman?”

Toni nods, eyes wide. Jorgen shifts his gaze away, eager to avoid an emotional woman.

“Good. Back t’work, lass, we can’t go to Winterfell with only two bloody swords to sell.”

She stands once she doesn’t feel so shaken anymore. Jorgen’s back is to her, sifting through carving tools.

Toni returns to the hearth, picking up a new piece of steel. “Thank you,” she says softly, while the smithy is still quiet enough for whispers.

Jorgen never answers and gives no indication he heard her, but Toni knows he does.


	3. Barrowton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Explicit language! I'm sorry, everyone's just raunchy in this chapter

It’s disgustingly cold outside, the day she and Jorgen ride for Barrowton. The old smith didn't really care either way, which made it easy to suggest they go south rather than north. Winterfell might be the capital of the North, but Barrowton is closer, has better ale, and the chances of running into a Stark are much lower.

It’s just… _weird_ to think about them. She tries not to. But at the same time, Toni has slowly but surely collected as much information about the other Starks. Or is  _she_ theother Stark now? Is she even a Stark, if no one knows her name? There’s a whole family of them, with centuries of history behind their name and sigil. They _mean_ something in this world. And Toni?

Toni is terrified of being nothing.

This is why she doesn’t want to run into any of them. All this existentialism is damn inconvenient.

“Oi, girl!” Jorgen barks. “Quit fuckin’ around and ‘elp me.” He’s lifting supplies onto a wagon. Toni hurries over to lift a sack of grain into the back of the cart.

“What’s all this?” Toni heaved another sack onto the cart. She eyes the markings on the burlap and grows wary.  “The miller’s coming too?”

Jorgen notices her trepidation and grunts. “Aye, ’s got business in Barrowton. Safer to travel t’gether, Tones,” he reminds her. “Not too many bandits ‘round here, but y’know. This is _wolf_ country.”

Toni rolls her eyes, ready to complain again about the unreasonable number of times Northerners managed to fit the word _‘wolf’_ into common conversation, but then the damn miller stomps up to them, glaring hard at her. The man was lean and clean-shaven, with shaggy hair the color of ash. He and Jorgen were on good terms, but he hated Toni with a _passion_.

Jorgen is already walking back to the smithy, oblivious.

“Pill,” Toni greets him cooly.

“Don’t fuckin’ call me that,” he growls back, plopping another sack of grain onto the cart.

Toni scowls, annoyed.“ _Everyone_ calls you Pill.” She isn’t even sure what his full name is. She just can't win with this asshat.

Some of the people in town don’t trust her, and plenty of the men like to leer at her, but the miller just plain _hated_ her. He scowls right back at Toni. “Not _you_ , you little—”

“Pill!” Jorgen calls amicably, nodding in the man’s direction. “What took you so long? Wife giving you a proper send-off?”

The miller gives him a roguish grin, forgetting to yell at Toni. “Well, I don’ mean to _boast_ , but… ”

Toni tunes out the rest of their dick-measuring contest. She climbs into the back of the wagon, ending up next to a sloppily-dressed young girl trying, fruitlessly, to braid her hair. She was no older than seventeen, and clearly a prostitute. Toni feels her stomach churn

“Would you like some help with that?” She offers, gesturing to the girl’s yellow hair.

The girl blinks, looking Toni up and down. “You knows how?” She asked uncertainly, eyeing Toni’s hair.

Toni still has a pixie-cut, and it garners a lot of strange attention around Torrhen’s Square. The current conclusion is that Toni has head lice, which is probably the tamest rumor about Toni Stark _ever_ , so she’s not complaining. “Turn around, I can braid it for you.”

The girl gives her a tentative smile. “Thank yeh, m’lady,” she says, turning around. “I’m Talla.”

“Cool—ah, that’s a lovely name,” Toni corrects herself. It’s bad enough that her American accent sounds sort of aristocratic here, but throwing out weird 21st-century vernacular makes her stick out like a sore thumb. “My name is Toni.”

The girl giggles. “That’s a man’s name.”

Toni scoffs. “Who cares? It’s my name.” She pulls Talla’s hair into one hand and divides it into three sections. “Seven hells, your hair is long. Doesn’t it get in the way? That’s why mine is so short. I don’t have time to brush it every hour.”

“I don’t brush it _that_ often,” Talla argues, leaning her head back into Toni’s hands. “And—m’lord says it’s pretty like this. Even better when it’s wavy.”

This is the last thing Toni wants to talk about. “Who’s _m’lord?_ ” She asks anyway. Talla is young and traveling alone. “Does he live in Barrow Hall?”

“How’d you know?” Talla gasps quietly, worried. She looks back at Toni in fear.

Toni offers her a small smile, though it takes everything for Toni not to seem angry. “I’m just very clever. I won’t tell no one, promise.” She might punch a lord in the face, though. Talla is so, _so_ young.

Talla’s shawl slips off her shoulder, and Toni can see greenish-blue skin.

Oh, she’s definitely going to punch a lord.

* * *

Barrowton is lively. Toni didn’t expect it, but crowds are loud and rude enough to remind her of Manhattan. As soon as they arrived, Talla had run off to find her lord, and Toni busied herself setting up a stall with Jorgen. The miller fucked off to wherever millers go, and Toni is happy enough not to look at his ugly face any longer.

“It’s busier than usual,” Jorgen comments, looking eastward. “Betcha there’s some lords in town, feastin’ with the Dustins.”

House Dustin, the seat of Barrowton. They aren’t a very big or powerful house. Toni frowns. “Who would be visiting Lord Dustin?”

“Dunno. Manderlys?” He guesses. “It’s good f’r business anyhow. Lookit, all th’ stalls about. Pill’s down that way, yeh see ‘im?”

“No,” Toni says flatly. Jorgen only gives her a sour look.

“‘Ello there, girlie,” a young man strolls up to them, looking at Toni. He grins and picks up a steel blade. “How much for this one?”

Toni looks over the knife. “That one’s ten silvers.”

He grins and turns to Jorgen. “No, I mean ‘ow much for _this_ one?”

The little bastard is pointing at Toni. An auspicious start. _Do Northerners believe in blood sacrifice? Maybe this dickhead will be of use._

“Fuck off, boy. We’re only selling the blades.” Jorgen speaks first, his voice plain and loud. “Get lost before she cuts off your cock with one of them.”

_Jorgen, you know me so well._

The man only scrunches up his nose in disappointment, setting down the knife. “Bet your cunt’s saggy anyway.”

Toni stares at the man, cheerfully imagining his death as he wanders off. The smith growls. “Fuckin’ cocksuckers, aren’t they? Don’t pay no mind to ‘em, Tones.” He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t offer any words of concern, but she can see his fists trembling.

She takes a deep, calming breath. “Jorgen, after this is over, you and I are gonna get _tanked_ at the nearest pub, you hear me?”

He actually smiles and pats her shoulder. “I hear ya, lass.”

* * *

She sells a lot of weapons. Toni looks at the coins piling up in her wooden chest, and wonders if this is any different from building warheads through military contracts.

 _Of course, it’s different._ But will she always have to rely on violence and warfare for a livelihood?

Toni sells farming household tools as well, but castles usually commission their own smith for those items, so she’ll never make much of a profit off of those. It was difficult enough for _smallfolk_ to get used to seeing a woman smithing, but highborns? Perish the fucking thought. She’d never get the chance.

The sun is setting, and the air has grown so cold she can see her breath. Jorgen claps a hand onto her shoulder, making her jump. He huffs. “It’s cold as shit. You promised me a drink, so what’re we doing out here?”

Toni shoves off his hand, grinning despite herself. “I never said I’d pay,” she objects, walking beside him.

The blacksmith scoffs. “You’re paying, lass, w’th all the coin you’ve just earned. Seven hells, you’re better at this than I thought.”

They don’t call her the Merchant of Death for nothing. Toni shrugs. “It could’ve gone better. Fewer ‘ _fuck you, cunt_ ’s would’ve been nice.”

Jorgen chortles. “You looked ready to geld each an’ every one of them.”

“I would’ve tried,” Toni agrees fiercely. “Can’t geld them all, though, so I’m glad you came along.”

Jorgen chuckles when he sees the look on her face. “If you can’ handle it, I could always handle th’ customers for ya—”

“Never, Jorg,” Toni cuts him off automatically, though he’s only teasing. “Unless you think you can barter like me?”

“Can’t _bat my eyes_ th’ way you do, Toni, but I could geld any fucker as easily as you,” Jorgen says gruffly as they push their way into the crowded bar. They sit at the end of one table, and Jorgen calls for a server. “Ale and bread f’r us, yeah?”

“ _Lots_ of ale,” Toni says sternly. “If I’m not drunk soon, what was the point of playing nice with all those jackasses?” 

* * *

“No, no, no. You’re goin’ about this all wrong, sweetheart.” Toni interrupts a young man’s laments about the tavern girl he slept with. “No wonder she doesn’t want to see you again!”

“Wha—what would _you_ know about it, wench?”

Toni chuckles and takes another sip before eyeing the grouchy blonde across the table. “Because I’ve actually  _had_ sex, greenie, and I know what makes it good for both parties.” Toni holds back a comment about using diagrams to teach him about the clitoris.

Jorgen slaps the back of her head, but he’s too tired to put any force behind it. Toni ignores him, certain he’ll be asleep in his soup by the time she finished her pint.

The boy splutters out his drink. “Oi, I’m not some—I’m not  _green_ , I’ve laid w’ girls b’fore! There’s nuthin’ wrong with the way I fuck!”

“Hm,” Toni pretends to consider it, “And did any of them come back for more? _No_? That’s ‘cause ya don’t know what you’re doing, ya goof.” Her face screws up in distaste. Apparently, shitty ale makes her talk like a native New Yorker.

But the men simply roar with laughter, and the blonde one blushes furiously. It’s too easy to rile up these guys. Someone claps her on the back too harshly, spilling her drink a little, but she doesn’t mind.

“What’s yer name, wench?” One of the men asks, giving her a crooked, nasty smile.

Nothing good will come of this conversation. “Toni,” she calls back imperiously. “Don’t you forget it!”

He slings an arm over the blonde one. “W- _ell_ then, _Toni…_ why don’tcha come  _teach me_ how you like t’ romp, eh?”

A few men howl and slam fists on the table in glee. Toni narrows her eyes at the man. “So you admit, you don’t know how?” She shakes her head. “At  _your_ age? I’m afraid you’re  _hopeless_ , darling.”

More men howl at that.

“Go find yerself a tavern girl, Corry! This one’s too feisty fer yeh!”

Someone passes her another drink, and Toni drinks half of it in one go. “She drinks like a sailor too!”

“A woman after my own heart!”

Toni feels something sliding down her waist, and twists in her seat. “Do you want to lose that hand, child?” She scowls at an unsuspecting boy, who jumps and stutters before leaving. Toni glares at the rest of the men. “That goes for all of you. If I wanted you, you’d know!”

Three men raise their glasses to her in reverence and chorus, “Aye, wench!”

The sight makes her laugh. She points to the three of them. “I like the way you think. Next one’s on me!”

She basks in the cheers that follow. Another gust of cold wind rushes through the bar as more travelers take shelter from the damnable weather. Toni sighs, rising from her seat to seek out fresher air. There are a few musicians in the far corner of the bar, playing something light and sort of Irish-folksy. Toni has tried to make sense out of this country’s history, but it’s mixed with all sorts of influences Toni doesn’t understand.

A red-faced man stumbles up to her with a bright smile. Theo. She met him earlier, and they commiserated over the terrible beer. He’s been to Dorne, and wouldn’t stop talking about it.

“Tona!” He greets her, reaching out for her hands. He keeps getting her name wrong, but then again, they’re all pretty buzzed. “Won’t you dance with me? I would be ever so grateful!”

She snorts but takes his hands. Whatever sort of dance they’re going to do, it’s going to look terrible. “ _Ever so grateful?_ I’d be happy to dance with a southron lady!” Toni mocks.

He pulls a face, though he seems unoffended. “You know, in Dorne the women are warriors. You would love it there, I’m certain.”

“Gods,” Toni snickers, gearing up to criticize everything about Dorne from its shitty wine to its shitty horses— _like a true Northerner_ , as Jorgen impressed upon her—but then a flash a hair catches her eye. She turns away from Theo to follow it, recognizing Talla’s yellow braid.

There’s a man with her. A _lord_ , by the looks of his fur-lined cloak.

Talla is in tears.


	4. Harwood of House Stout

To be perfectly honest, Toni doesn’t even  _ remember _ what she said to start this fight, but it’s certainly been started. She runs her tongue over her teeth, tasting blood. She pulls her shoulder away from whoever’s trying to help her stand.

“Seven hells, m’lord, she’s just a girl!” Someone protests, tugging at the man’s arm. 

“That’s right,” Toni snarls, and all she sees is  _ him _ , the one with auburn hair and a strong jawline. Hell, if she didn’t know what he was, Toni would be all over him. “She’s just a girl, Stout.”

Harwood Stout is frothing at the mouth. His hair’s bit of a mess from where Toni yanked it, and his nose drips with blood. “Who the hell do you think you are, wench? You think I won’t kill you for striking me?”

The threat in his voice makes her whole body thrum with fear and anger. “What sort of lord speaks to a lady that way?” Toni asks mockingly, shaking her head. She hates to think this is how he’s treated Talla all this time. 

Talla. She’s halfway up the stairs, not in a room like Toni instructed, but no one seems to notice her. 

Toni’s back is to the door, and Lord Harwood Stout is screaming for her head, so perhaps she should make a break for it…But she stays perfectly still. Daring him to make a move. She  _ wants _ him to try because Toni needs an excuse to fight.

She’d forgotten how thrilling is to fight. How sweet it felt to act on righteous anger. It’s so much more exhilarating than the smithy. 

Toni takes a calculated step back as Harwood’s comely face contorts with rage. 

“You  _ bitch! _ ” He shrieks, shoving his way between men. 

Toni rubs her cheek and tastes blood on her tongue again. Her face is going to swell up after this, but she’s convinced that Harwood will look worse. She grins bloodily at him. “Go on, sweet-pea. If I’m a bitch, you’re a despicable, candy-ass little lord.”

She isn’t sure ‘candy-ass’ really landed, but he’s plenty insulted. Toni feels a chill down her back as someone opens the door, but Harwood  _ screams _ again, charging towards her with a big meaty fist rearing back.

Toni takes another step back but finds her way blocked. Someone’s in her way. Shit. There isn’t enough room in the doorway to dodge properly. Maybe she shouldn’t have had that last beer. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Toni dodges, sort of, but Harwood plows forward. She trips backward, but there are still people all around her and Stout is like a  _ battering ram _ —and the world tips up as she falls under him, along with three others behind her. 

The air is positively  _ frigid _ , when did she get outside? And when did—Toni gasps, suddenly pushing ferociously at the heavy weight over her. Something metal digs into her side as well, and her right arm is pinned down. 

“The  _ fuck—” _ Someone wheezes by her ear, and then more people are pushing, rolling Hardwood off in one mighty go. 

Toni scrambles to her feet, gasping for breath. She tries to move her arm and hisses in pain. 

Harwood gets to his feet as well and lunges for her, but someone grabs him. Toni lunges for  _ him _ and manages to headbutt him with enough force to make both of them shout in pain. She hears something  _ crack _ and hopes it’s his nose. 

Someone hauls her back. Or forward? She’s seeing double. 

There’s a lot of yelling.    


Toni blinks, trying to get a better idea of what’s going on. An angry man clutching his face glares between her and Harwood. For a wild moment, Toni thinks she broke  _ his _ nose, but Harwood’s nose is busted up far worse. 

“What the fuck is goin’ on here?!”

“It’s this  _ bitch! _ She’s mad! Attacked me like a wild dog—”

“I did nothing but defend myself,” Toni snaps. Her mouth is filling with blood, so she spits at the ground and wipes her lips. “You struck me, and I defended myself.”

“You little  _ whore! _ ” Harwood howls, but one of the men calls for silence. Whoever he is, he’s clearly more important than Harwood because the asshole shuts up. 

“Take Lord Stout inside, I’ll speak with him once he’s settled down,” he growls. 

Toni watches two Northerners drag Harwood inside. Her eyes follow them to the entrance of the bar, where Talla is standing in a torn dress, shaking. 

“My lady,” the man tries to put a hand on her shoulder. Toni steps away.

“Talla,” she calls, and the young woman runs straight into Toni’s arms, sobbing. 

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, m’lady, I was so stupid, and now he’s hurt you—”

Toni hugs her tightly, not saying a word. It’s a little awkward, Talla hunched over to cry into her neck, but Toni holds the young woman until she stops shaking. Her arm throbs in protest, but Toni doesn’t let go. Not until Talla wants her to.

The dark-haired man, probably another lord, gives her a long, unreadable look. He’s the one with a big red mark on his face and thinks Harwood might’ve punched him at some point.

Toni pats Talla’s hair. “Go find Jorgen, sweetheart. Stay with him until I’m back.”

Talla gives her a tearful nod and leaves, keeping her head bowed as she passes the lord.

The cold hits Toni all over again now that her blood isn’t singing, and she shivers. The lord does not, but seeing as he has a huge fur cloak on, of course, he wasn’t cold—

“Here,” he sighs, unclasping said fur cloak. Without waiting for a response, he drapes it over her shoulders. “Shouldn’t let a lady freeze out here,” he mutters.

Toni laughs without meaning to. “I-I’m a smith, m’lord,” she blurts out, even as she pulls the cloak tighter. It’s too warm to refuse. She swipes hair and sweat off her brow tiredly.

The man frowns, looking at her again. He looks at her for a long time, his frown growing more pronounced until Toni worries she’s broken some sacred Northern etiquette rule. She can’t make out the details of his expression, as his back is to the light of the tavern, but he’s definitely frowning. 

“What?” Toni asks impulsively. “I’m not giving this back, not in this bloody weather.”

That makes him crack a smile, at least briefly. “Best get used to the weather then. Won’t get much warmer than this.”

Toni balks, forgetting that this is a lord. “This is—this is  _ mid-summer? _ Not even autumn? Some of the trees here have red leaves already.”

He cocks his head to the side. “You mean the weirwoods?”

_ What the hell are weirwoods?  _ The man notices the utterly blank look she gives him and raises an eyebrow. “The heart trees. You’re not Northern, are you?”

Toni rolls her eyes, already used the vague stigma that came with being a foreigner here. “No, I grew up somewhere much  _ warmer _ . What happens in winter here, do you all just  _ die? _ ”

“Nay, we just wear more furs.” He looks pointedly at his cloak, and Toni grips it protectively. 

“What, this old thing? I think I’ve got blood on it now, you don’t want it back,” Toni glances at the fabric, surreptitiously checking for actual stains. Her nose and mouth feel sticky. 

He was beginning to look less grim, but the reminder of blood makes the lord frown again. “Are you well, my lady? I can have a maester look at you.”

Toni makes an effort not to scoff. She had a lot to say about  _ maesters _ , and now wasn’t the time for any of it. Her right shoulder aches fiercely, as does a spot on her ribcage, but she says nothing of it. “I’m alright, m’lord. Sorry to pull you into this. Stout squished you too, didn’t he?”

He huffs, and after a few seconds, it occurs to Toni that he’s laughing. In a solemn, very stiff way, but still. He rubs his nose again, though the bleeding has already stopped. “I’m afraid he caught me with my guard down. Me, and Rodrik and poor little Jory too.”

“...I may have goaded him a little,” Toni confesses, feeling guilty only because this lord seems a lot more decent than Stout. 

“Because he hurt your friend?” The lord guesses. “The young blonde woman I saw?”

“Her name is Talla,” Toni says quietly. 

“And what’s your name?” 

Irritation prickles over her. “I wonder if I matter more than Talla because I hit back harder than her, or because I’m not a Snow?”

The lord pauses and raises both his hands. “Peace, woman. I’m only trying to resolve this.”

“Why?” Toni demands, her eyes narrowing. “Why does it fall to  _ you _ ? I don’t know you, but I know you’re not from Barrow Hall. Lady Dustin rules here, and no one else could command a Stout.” House Stout was a vassal of House Dustin, and there were no other lords in Barrowton. 

_ Unless… _ Toni thinks back to what Jorgen said earlier, about visitors in Barrow Hall—

“Aye, but a Stark could command a Dustin, and any vassals thereof,” the lord interrupts her, crossing his arms. He turns in the light, and Toni’s eyes are drawn to the embossed sigil on his jerkin. “I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell.” 

Toni stares, unable to come up with a proper reply. Eventually, she gives him a clumsy half-curtsy, which makes him chuckle again. “You could’ve  _ started _ with that, Lord—Stark.” She already hates this. She came to Barrowton to  _avoid_ this. "My name is Toni. And, uh. I'm sorry if I—said anything..."

He shrugs, unworried. “Let us continue this conversation indoors, Toni. I seem to have lost my cloak.”

“You’re not getting it back, either,” Toni says automatically, moving to follow him. Her teeth chatter as a gust of wind hits them. 

“No, I daresay I won’t,” Lord Stark answers, oddly solemn, “I’ve already made my peace with that.”


	5. Eddard

When he finally steps into the tavern, the lantern light throws Lord Stark’s face into sharp relief.

For some reason, she’d expected him to look like Howard, but Eddard Stark doesn’t look like anyone she knows. He’s much younger than she thought a lord ought to be, with plain brown hair and grey eyes. It’s almost more unnerving this way. A Northern lord with her name. A  _ stranger _ with her name, and a reminder that this isn’t her world. 

Starks of Winterfell. Ironborn of Pyke. Red-and-gold Lannisters. Is it vain of her to think these parallels exist to taunt her? Or is it all just coincidence? Toni regrets that last drink, it’s making her emotional. She wishes for home and her eyes prickle for a moment, threatening tears, before she smothers the urge. Crying over homesickness isn’t her style. 

Eddard Stark glances at her in the light, and his face shifts into something she  _ does _ recognize—disappointment. That, at least, reminds her of Howard. He grimaces when he realizes she’s seen him, though.

For a moment, Toni thinks he’ll pretend she didn’t see anything. But then his hand rests on her shoulder, and he’s peering at her with concern. “Apologies, my lady,” he says quietly.

“What are you apologizing for?” Toni presses.  _ Why did you look at me like that? _ She never had to ask Howard  _ why _ . He was never apologetic for wanting a son in place of her. 

But Lord Stark grows even more reticent, refusing to meet her eyes. He still answers honestly. “You remind me of my sister. You even resemble her. But you are not Lyanna, and it was wrong for me to wish you were.”

Again, not what she expected.  _ Did I just get friendzoned? _ Toni’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. She didn’t know much about Westerosi history, but Lyanna Stark had been at the center of the last regime change, and Lord Stark’s words are heavy with meaning. Lyanna was a great Northern beauty. Lyanna caused a war and ended a bloodline of dragons. Lyanna died at sixteen, in Eddard Stark’s arms, in a tower at the other end of the world. “Oh. Wow. I thought you were just going to say something rude about my hair.”

A short chuckle escapes his throat before Lord Stark can stop himself. “You have a talent for that,” he notes, his voice warm again. Toni gives him a quizzical look. “Bringing cheer when words grow dark.” He seems grateful for it, though he does not smile. 

Toni grins for them both, even though it hurts her cheeks. 

The tavern has mostly cleared out, save for a few sleepy drunks and the musicians chatting in the corner. One of Eddard Stark’s men must’ve done something. Toni searches for familiar faces. 

Jorgen spots her first. His clothes are rumpled and stained from the soup he’d fallen into earlier, but his eyes are alert and piercing. He looks between Toni’s face, the fine cloak on her shoulders, and the lord with a bloody nose beside her. When his gaze meets her again he asks with his eyes,  _ what the fuck did you do, lass? _

Toni massages her reddened cheek and ignores the smith. She’ll give him a play-by-play on the morrow if she remembers enough of this night. Now that the adrenaline has passed, she’s tired.

Stout is sitting at the far end of a table, and a large Northerner stands guard beside him, a beefy hand laid over the pommel of his sword. A younger man, with the same round nose as the guard, holds a slab of raw meat against his eye. 

“Jory,” Lord Stark exclaims, moving towards the younger man. “What happened?” He demands, already settling his eyes on Lord Stout. 

“Apologies, my lord,” Jory replies calmly, though his eyes are alight. “Lord Stout was not acting honorably, and when I pointed this out, he was displeased.”

Toni squints at the younger man, surprised. He’s much younger than she’d initially assumed, perhaps nineteen or twenty. That explained Jory’s actions, at least. Toni doubts anyone older than twenty would end up provoke a drunk, angry lord into punching them in the face… Besides herself, that is. 

A voice in the back of her mind that sounds remarkably like Rhodey sighs and tells her,  _ You’re too old to pick bar fights without a wingman, Tones.  _ While it’s true she has no wingman, she has a Jorgen. She scans the bar and asks him quietly, “Hey, is there any ale left?”

The smith gives her the ugliest look she’s ever seen. “Oh, that’s a good jape. I’m never drinking with you again, lass!”

Toni snorts, paying no attention to the Northern lords as she sinks into the seat beside her fellow blacksmith. “What do you mean,  _ again? _ I had to drink for the both of us because you fell asleep.” She tries for a grin, but her cheeks really hurt now, so she pouts.

“That’s what started this mess, innit?” Jorgen scowls. “M’lord, please forgive my apprentice. She’s too far in her cups to know what she’s doing.”

Toni doesn’t have to look up to know that Lord Stark is looking at her, all stoic and whatnot. She keeps her head down, shutting her eyes to the light. “It seems that Lord Stout is in a similar condition. I think we should let them both rest for the evening, and see how… in the morning…” Eddard Stark’s voice is very deep and rumble-y. Like Thor’s, but more soothing. 

“Aye, m’lord, but we can…” Jorgen’s gravelly voice seems very far away, and the wooden table doesn’t feel half as uncomfortable as it once did.

Her bench shifts and scrapes against the ground. Jorgen. “Up you get, lassie.”

“I’ll stay here,” Toni whines. She’s warm in this cloak. 

Someone who takes pleasure in cruel and unusual punishment suddenly tears the cloak from her shoulders, making Toni gasp and bolt upright. 

“Son of a bitch! Pillbug!” She blinks a few times and clambers to her feet, scowling all the while. The miller tosses the cloak back onto her shoulders, rolling his eyes. She isn’t sure when he got here, or if he was always here, but she clings to the edges of the thick cloth in case anyone else tries taking it. 

“Did she just call you a pillbug?” Jorgen asks, pushing Toni towards the stairs. “How strange.”

“Who knows, mate? You keep strange company.”

“Aye, that I do.” Jorgen elbows him. 

Toni plods up the stairs, half-listening to the easy banter. Pill’s never this friendly to her, and she’s never heard him talk without it sounding like there’s a stick up his ass. Pill’s just a snooty asshole most of the time, even with Jorgen, but right now they sound like old war buddies. 

She peers at them over her shoulder, and finds it funny. 

“The ‘ell is she giggling for?” 

“You’re taller than Jorgen,” Toni inspects, wonder creeping into her tone. “Your hair’s quite long, too, Pill.” The miller had his hair down, and in the firelight, it looked more white-gold than grey-blond. She tried to imagine Jorgen with a full beard, swinging an axe instead of a hammer. 

“Off to bed, lass. You’ve gone and frightened Pill.”

“She’s  _ drunk _ is all. What if she picks a fight with Lord Stark next?”

Toni snickers, but then Talla is there, wrapping a dainty arm around her. Toni is ushered into a room. She’s asleep before her head hits the straw pallet, dreaming of Pill as an archer and Jorgen as a grouchy little warrior. 

* * *

The next morning, Toni recounts her whole story to Jorgen and Pill, only plagued by a slight pressure on her temples that fades once she drinks water. Pill seems the most disappointed over this, and she flips him off while Jorgen isn’t looking. Apparently seeing her get into a fist fight with a lord has improved Pill’s opinion of her, as he hasn’t glared at her once today.

“Am I supposed to go make my case to Lord Stark now?” Toni asks, frowning. She can’t remember what happened after seeing Jory with a black eye. Bar fights are probably commonplace, but Stout punched the Warden of the North in the face, and Toni  _ did _ provoke him. “I’m probably in some trouble, aren’t I?”

Pill rolls his eyes. “You’re a pretty little lass,” he says scathingly, “Lord Stark has already pardoned you, obviously. Stout’ll have to swear fealty again, and pay double in taxes, I expect. M’lord spoke to Talla as well, so I doubt he’ll be kind to Stout.”

Toni is surprised for a moment, and then she relaxes, a warm feeling blooming in her chest. Lord Stark had sought out a bastard girl for her side of the story. 

Then Jorgen interrupts, telling them both that Lord Stark has already left for Winterfell with his men since Lady Dustin hates his guts. Toni pauses over her meal, absorbing the words. She did not know him long enough to like or dislike him, and yet Toni feels disappointed that Eddard Stark is already gone from her life. She speculates over the chances of seeing him again if she ever traveled to Winterfell to sell or trade her metalwork. She speculates, but does nothing. 

Talla returns to Torrhen’s Square with the three of them. Toni offers to pay for her seat on the wagon, but Pill and Jorgen cut in and they split the cost between them all. Talla cries again, but her face isn’t blotchy or distorted by distress. She cries, hugs them, and obliges fellow travelers with pretty girlish songs all the way back to the square. 

They return to Torrhen’s Square, and Toni feels as though she’s not the only one that’s changed. Talla visits the smithy as often as she’s allowed, between her shifts at the tavern. She still ends up sleeping with strange men in between serving ale and bread, but Talla does not mistake lust for love anymore. The young girl saves up her coin, though, and two months later, she leaves the North. Toni doesn’t think it’s what Talla needs, or that she’ll find whatever it is she’s looking for. But Talla is her friend, and Toni’s only job is to support her. They hug, drink and sing together, in a bar with a few other women, and the next morning, Talla Snow is gone. 

The miller, on the other hand, sometimes comes to the forge and has no plans to ever leave. These days, he’s perfectly content to ignore Toni rather than scowl every time she comes near. She takes to calling him ‘Pillbug’ just to see him glare, but he loses it as soon as Jorgen passes by. 

Jorgen is the least changed. But Toni works hard, on everything from measly fish hooks to finely-crafted helms, and Jorgen tends to smile with pride whenever a customer is rendered speechless. Toni is not his apprentice but a partner, and he shares in her success all the same. And Toni has more success now, so she finds herself dealing with more smirks and grins from a grumpy Northern smith. 

Weeks pass. Then months. Toni gets them more and more business, as word spreads of her craftsmanship— _ their _ craftsmanship. Jorgen teaches her about working different metals, and she teaches him what she knows of alloys and modernized techniques. She shows him a finished gauntlet, repaired and embellished with shining copper and steel, and Jorgen shakes his head in disbelief. “Who  _ are _ you, lass?”

She still loves to leave people in awe. Her ego demands recognition, even in this shithole world with stupid, impossible seasons. But it also guts her every time someone asks for her name, because she’ll never get back the respect she worked so hard for.

“I’m just Toni,” she answers with a laughing smile, knowing better than to flaunt her genius these days. When people lived with so little, pride was as valuable and fragile as gold. “The best blacksmith in the North,” she adds, just to prove herself a hypocrite.

A customer at the edge of the shop barks out a laugh. “A bold claim, my lady!” He snorts, but he’s already paid for the sleek short sword she’s made. “But, perhaps not a completely false one. You’re a funny wench, aren’t you?”

She smiles indulgently, imagining a painful death for the man as he wanders off. 

Jorgen chuckles when he sees the look on her face. “It still gets t’ yeh, don’t it?”

“It does,” Toni answers, soft and honest. “But people will always be assholes. They’re predictable in that way.”

He’s quiet. “Aye. But I think there’ll always be folk like you ‘s well. Whingin’ about assholes and smacking highborn arses.” He catches her eye and winks. 

Toni grins, and turns back to the sheet of metal on her block. It used to be a breastplate, and and would become a new one, but Toni had a new purpose for it. An old idea. There’s no use to it, she’ll never sell it, and yet...

She spends a fortnight hammering out the details of her helmet, making it as fierce and forceful as the Mark 42. Without thinking about it, Toni adjusts the pauldron size for leather padding instead of synthetic foam, and alters the latches from hydraulics to hinges and straps.  _ I’ll never wear this, _ she promises herself as she measures each part against her own shape.  _ I don’t need this _ , she’s certain, but she crafts herself a suit of armor anyway, just in case, because she’s  _ Iron Man, _ damn it, even if she’s not supposed to be Toni Stark anymore. 

The thought of Eddard Stark comes to her, unbidden, many times over the course of the year. It’s not easy to forget him, for the sole reason of being  _ Stark _ while she isn’t (but it isn’t the sole reason, no, because he also once asked a young bastard girl to for her opinion, and Toni will never forget  _ that _ either). She never travels to Winterfell, but on the few occasions she goes to Wintertown, just beyond the castle’s borders, Toni doesn’t look for him. It disappoints her a little each time, but it’s also a relief.

The season doesn’t change. It’s still summer as the year ends and a new one begins. Toni doesn’t keep track very well, but she’s been here about eight months in total when word of the Ironborn reaches the North. The Lannister fleet has been completely wiped about, and Balon Greyjoy is in open rebellion. 

Lord Stark calls his bannermen. They will march south to support the King and protect the kingdom. Jorgen and Toni, like many other smiths and craftsmen tasked with creating siege weapons and armor for the soldiers, pack up their shops and follow. 

Toni curses to herself and packs a sleek suit of armor that’s too slim to fit a soldier and too advanced to have been made by a simple smith. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The year is now 289 AC, and Eddard Stark is 26 according to book canon! Toni is 32, but I imagine she looks younger due to modern medicine and beauty, good health, and her army of stylists back home.
> 
> EDIT: This is a minor detail, but Talla doesn't stay in Torrhen's Square after her ordeal with Harwood Stout. She stays on as a tavern girl to save up money, and then she leaves. The North holds too many bad memories for her, and she believes that if she goes south, she may get away from the stigma of being a bastard. She's trying to make her way to Dorne, where she's heard that bastards are treated better.


	6. Siege of Pyke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: graphic violence! lots of blood and poorly-worded death scenes.

In the mess of imminent warfare, no one notices her. The suit is polished dark grey rather than her favored colors, but since Toni is a part of the Northern forces marching on Pyke, she can’t be too bothered by the practicality of blending in. The Lannister army is in Lannisport, trying to push out the invaders without further destroying their port city, and it’s too far for Toni to travel in order to justify hot-rod red armor.

But damn _,_ Toni can just imagine it. The _real_ Iron Man, cutting down those so-called _ironborn_ maniacs for raping women and pillaging towns. If she had a better coolant system and more skill with a greatsword, Toni would do it. She wants to be Iron Man again, and be lauded for her achievements. She wants to be a hero again, in a world that doesn’t despise her for disbanding the Avengers.

 _We weren’t a team by the time we disbanded. Just a weapon._ Or a time-bomb all along, just as Bruce once said. It still hurt to think of her role in so much misfortune, and yet…

And yet, Toni wants to wear red and gold armor and save lives. It’s nothing new.

Jorgen would probably skin her alive for enameling _anything_ in red, though. Northerners really love the color of dirty ice. Toni supposes it reminds them of home.

And they are far from home indeed. Toni lifts her head to the sea breeze to cool her face. They’re setting up an encampment for the night, and Toni has hidden away by the edge of the sparse woods. She’s near enough to hear the clang of swords as men practice, and the faint voices of rowdy, grumbling soldiers. She can’t pick out any words, but there’s an obvious disgruntled quality to their mutterings that can only be Northerners complaining of the hot, stuffy climate. Toni knows this because she wholeheartedly agrees with them. The south is as hot and gross as the North is cold and bland, and so horribly humid that most soldiers only wear armor of hardened leather. But since Toni sucks as sword-fighting, she’s made her own armor to compensate. It’s stuffy as hell in the suit, even with half of it made of leather, but it’s no worse than the Mark I. It’s no worse than fighting in a desert.

“Oi, Collins! You around?” The rough voice of a man reaches her. Toni rises from her tiny fire at the sound of her fake surname. The man steps through the trees, no doubt following the smoke from her camp. His eyes fall to the helm by her feet. “Gods, you really have made it this far. You’ve the armor and everything! Me and Gevan have a bet, you know.”

Toni rolls her eyes, adjusting the leather jerkin she wears. The clothes are so ridiculous here. “I know, Derick. You should get in on Weyl's betting pool too, if you’re so sure I’m going to be cut in two before we even make it to Seagard—you do realize they’ve already taken back Seagard, right?”

Toni also put in her own bet for the pot, seeing that no one had bet on her coming out of this battle alive and having fought in the vanguard, but she didn’t put in too much. She doesn’t want to hustle poor Weyl, it would look bad. But she’s definitely fighting in the vanguard.

“Pah!” Derrick dismisses her point. “Reavers are sure t’get you, missy. Unless one of these animals get yeh first,” he wiggles his eyebrows as he points back to the main encampment. “For the record, though, I’m betting you’ll gut some fine squids before this ‘rebellion’ is over, so here—” and he tossed her a lumpy bundle of stale bread and hard sausage. “Can’t have you weak as a kitten on the morrow, can I?”

Toni held the cloth loosely, more interested in watching Derrick. She hasn’t been thrown out of the army yet because she’d rallied a few foot soldiers into starting that betting pool. They keep her secret out of morbid curiosity for the most part, but Toni can rely on them to simply look the other way, and it’s enough. “So... You think I’ll die, but I’ll take down some men before it?”

Derrick shrugs. “Isn’t that how we all want to go? You’re no different, _that’s_ what I bet.” He grins toothily and winks. “If you’re feelin’ spooked about the coming war, though, don’t be a stranger. My tent’s the green one, over yonder,” Derrick continues slyly.

Of course, he ends the conversation with an unwelcome proposition, but Toni thinks it’s more of a cursory thing at this point. Westerosi men can’t spend so much time around an unmarried woman without feeling obligated to at least _try_. Toni answers the way she always does. “If I wanted you, you’d know.”

“Aye, an’ I’ll be here when you do, Collins,” he states, far more confident than he should be. He tips his head in farewell, and Toni returns her attention to her quiet campsite.

She stamps out her fire just an hour later and forces herself to sleep. They will leave as dawn approaches, and Toni will not be left behind.

* * *

The next day, Toni stands just behind a Bear Island soldier and a man in red robes drinking merrily from a waterskin. The familiar smell of rum reaches her nose, and she eyes the waterskin with a mix of suspicious and envy. The man in red turns to her with a wide smirk and holds the skin out to her. “Share a drink with me, lass?”

Toni is already reaching out to take the skin when he speaks, and she freezes at his words. Her helm is down. Only a few people know who she is, and this stranger is not one of them. Toni flounders, knowing that if she speaks she might just dig her grave deeper.

The Bear Island soldier is the only one close enough to hear them, and he looks at Toni curiously. She sees no easy way out of this, so Toni flips up her helm and snatches the rum out of the red man’s hand. “Thank you, my lord,” she says imperiously and takes a long pull from the waterskin. She grimaces at the taste. “ _Fuck_. What sort of rum is this?”

The red man chuckles, taking the waterskin back. “Myrish. Too strong for you?”

Toni actually laughs at his presumption. “Too _sweet_. No wonder you’re fat if this is what you drink.”

The red man pauses and then begins to laugh heartily, slapping a hand onto the Northern soldier’s shoulder. “She’ll do well in this crowd, won’t she?”

The other man looks uncertain. “My lady, we’re on the frontlines of Pyke. We cannot protect you—”

The red man pats his arm again, firmly. “Don’t bother, Mormont. She’ll live through the night, at the very least. I’m certain. Hells, I think I might’ve even seen it in the fires!” He rubs his bearded chin thoughtfully. “ _Iron-hearted,_ this one!” His eyes glint with strange knowledge.

Toni doesn’t know what to make of any of that, especially those last words. She’s glad to have an excuse to flip down her faceplate and ignore the two of them as the King rides past.

“At dawn, we make for Pyke! Their walls are great, but they are no match for the King’s men! The first one over gets a cask of wine from my cellar, if he lasts the day!” The men around her cheer.

The red man chuckles darkly to himself. “Don’t go gettin’ any ideas, Mormont. You too, lassie,” he says, delighted. “The King has just promised me a cask from his own cellar.”

Toni thinks she catches Mormont rolling his eyes. “If you last the day, that is. Have your silly candles predicted your death yet?”

The red man gives him a sloppy shrug. “R’hllor has plans for me yet. He has plans for us all, I think!”

Mormont definitely rolls his eyes this time. “Whatever you say, priest.”

* * *

Toni is a terrible swordsman. Swordswoman. Sword-wielder. Whatever. She’s awful at this medieval tomfoolery. Within minutes of making over the walls of Pyke—ten minutes after Thoros of Myr does it, with a flaming sword to boot—Toni loses her main weapon. She’s already a little breathless from climbing over the damn wall and thinks furiously about her self-defense classes. She’s not any bigger than these men, which has always been the case for her, so she works with speed and quick thinking. Mostly.

A man raises an axe overhead, aiming to cleave her in two with a wild howl. Toni jerks backward, dodging, but regrets the distance she’s put between them. He can reach further with the axe than she can without a sword… He swipes sideways, and Toni steps back again before she can think of a better solution. The man, who has no helm, grins crookedly at her. He might’ve said something, but there’s too much noise to hear it, and Toni can’t read lips. She can see his mouth, though. Hm.

He begins to raise the axe again, but he’s slower this time, thinking she’ll just keep avoiding it. Toni lunges instead, recklessly, and backhands him across the face, grabbing the handle of the axe before it can swing down on her. She tugs fiercely, but he doesn’t let go—he’s smiling again—and Toni twists her left wrist and slashes him across the mouth with a spring-action blade.

He staggers backward, dropping the axe as blood gushes out of the wound. More than she expected. Toni’s fought before, but not like this. Her repulsor blasts were just as deadly, but they cauterized the skin on contact. Toni can’t look away—the blood, there’s _so much_ —

“ARCHERS!” Someone shouts, and arrows cut through the air. One bolt glances off her back, and another one nicks her helmet before Toni realizes that the arrows are from another tower of Pyke, not the perimeter walls. She ducks into an inner archway, along with three others.

An arrow whizzes past, impaling the soldier beside her. It doesn’t bleed so much, but he screams like _hell_. Toni presses herself against the wall to avoid the open air, pushing away the image in her head. She scans the courtyard, trying to figure out where the vanguard is moving to next.

“TO THE MAIN HALLS!” Toni thinks that was King Robert’s voice. _But where the fuck are the main halls?_

Toni sees a few soldiers in grey and brown—Karstark? Mormont? Something Northern—and decides to follow them.

Across a tiny, rickety bridge. Over a moat fed by seawater. Pyke is a terrible castle. Worse than von Doom’s palace.

But no one tries to destroy the bridge. Instead, Toni sees ironborn soldiers dash out onto the wood-and-rope bridge to meet them head-on. She freezes on the edge of the crossing, trying to figure out foe from friend. But freezing in battle isn’t an option. She charges, settling her eyes on a man with a squid over his chest. He swings, and she ducks low, deflecting his short sword. Toni releases the clawed points of her left gauntlet and slashes him at the armpit before kicking him into the moat. Many others have the same idea, and by the time she looks up, there’s only half as many people left standing. Then, more soldiers rush in from both sides.

The bridge is too narrow for more than three to walk side-by-side, and there’s ten—no, at least _fifteen_ people converging in the middle now. The ropes stretch and groan under the pressure, and Toni thinks she ought to flee before someone tosses her over too.

She hears a pained cry, followed by angry shouts—a Northern soldier staggers backward, still clutching a greatsword, but a Greyjoy man advances on him. The Northerner is hunched over, reeling from the last blow.

“My lord!” Someone shouts, just as the two men charge each other once more—then the rope snaps, and the ground is pulled out from under them all.

The next thing she knows, she’s sopping wet, and her mouth is full of seawater. Toni splutters, and scrambles to her feet, sluggish from the weighed-down armor. The bridge hadn’t been too far from the water, so the fall hasn’t killed anyone—directly, at least. Toni lunges after an ironborn soldier before he can deliver a Redwyne man to the Drowned God, sliding a knife between his ribs and throwing him off.

She turns, only to find another enemy gutting the Redwyne man before she can reach him. Toni feels like screaming, but instead, she draws a shorter blade from her belt and attacks. He doesn’t see her coming. Whatever she might feel for this man, for all the men that will die today, Toni pushes aside for now. She needs to focus on the living. She must, or she might fall apart on the spot, and then what will she be, besides another casualty?

Toni wrenches her blade free from the man’s gut, turning away before he stains the water. She scans, desperate to help before she loses another ally in this _stupid moat_ —there’s another ironborn straddling a soldier, shoving the Northerner’s head beneath the water.

Toni dives after the pair, tackling the ironborn before he drowns the poor man. The ironborn roars in response, and Toni rolls off him, barely feeling the icy water, and lets her dagger spring out from her right gauntlet. She slashes at his leg first, and he screams in shock and rage. He grabs her arm, pushing the blade down and away from his body. Toni twists, trying to break his hold, and only sees the glint of the knife headed for her face seconds before it reaches her. She reacts, only able to draw up her free hand to prevent the sharp point from sticking her eye out. Red rivulets run between her fingers, but before she can really think about it she frees her right hand and slashes, finding the gap between helm and spaulder.

He dies with a gurgle of black-red blood, and Toni turns away, again, before she feels sick. Her left hand bleeds freely from a deep, stinging gash across her last two fingers. She curls it into a fist and thinks nothing more about it. Instead, she scans for more foes—seeing none, she goes to the Northern soldier, who lays befuddled and gasping for breath in the chilly seawater. A long gash across his stomach prevents him from rising out of the moat on his own.

Alarmed, Toni kneels beside him, wrapping her arm behind his back to lift him out of the water. She’s relieved when he stops shaking, but he hasn’t fully recovered before he reaches out into the water blindly, drawing a greatsword out of _absolutely nowhere, what the hell?_  Toni only gives the blade a cursory look, but she sort of understands his attachment to such a beautiful weapon.

“My thanks,” the man says faintly, between hacking coughs, and Toni doesn’t answer—she turns her gaze past him towards one of the western towers, where half a dozen ironborn are assembling.

He stills, seeing the crossbows in their hands, and forces himself to stand. Suddenly, he barks out to the others in the moat, “Get to cover! _MOVE!_ ”

Toni scrambles to her feet and follows him to the edge of the courtyard, narrowly avoiding the crossbow bolts. Two other soldiers in the moat are not so lucky, but four make it to their side. The Northerner turns away from Toni, searching the smooth walls of the moat.

“We need to return to the main halls,” he murmurs softly, and Toni goes rigid, struck by the familiarity of his quiet voice.

That’s… that’s _Eddard Stark_. Toni tilts her helm lower but keeps her eyes on him. She can see his face now—he’s grown a beard, and his hair is dark from the seawater, but it’s _definitely_ Lord Stark. Her eyes fall to the gaping cut over his stomach, her worry increasing tenfold. He’s so pale. And he wants to keep fighting like this?

He turns to her with a grim look. “Do you see a way up? I must return to the King’s side.”

Toni recognizes the look in his eyes. It’s the same look that Captain America gave her when they faced an alien invasion. It’s the look Nick Fury had when he told her why SHIELD was stockpiling weapons. It’s the look Spider-Man had after she told him it was too dangerous for a teenager to be a hero.

Lord Stark is going to keep fighting, with or without her help.

Toni nods and points to a service entrance beneath one of the few stone bridges. “There,” she says simply, and the soldiers around her seem to understand without any further words. It looks to be a sewer entrance, but it’s large enough to walk through and leads straight to the main tower of Pyke.

Eddard Stark nods grimly. They have no shields or archers of their own, so there’s really only one plan of attack here. “Run on my mark.”

Toni thinks of the archers from the courtyard and the Karstark bannerman that died beside her.

“Now!”

The water sloshes around her legs, but she runs as fast as her legs can carry her. A bolt skims across her head, and a second bolt tears through the skin on her forearm, but then she’s clear. She looks up as the rest of them dive for cover and almost cried in relief when she sees that none of them actually died on the way here, though all of them look tired and injured.

Lord Stark moves to inspect the gated entrance to the sewage path, tugging at the bars. They don’t budge. Another soldier swears loudly, and Toni can feel their eyes on her.

Annoyance flashed through her, bright and burning. She draws her short sword—which is nothing more than a glorified dagger, really—and sticks it between the grate and the stone. Then she pulls, and the grate crumbles in the three places, already weakened by salt and rust.

“Ha!” A man whoops, and Toni finds herself looking at Weyl, one of the Northern bannermen that bet thirty dragons she would die during the siege. He claps her on the back as they enter the sewer line. “Well _done_ , Collins!”

Lord Stark hushes him. “This battle is not over yet. Follow me.”

* * *

Contrary to what Lord Stark said, the battle is over soon after they make it inside. Toni lost track of Eddard Stark after they entered the first level of the main tower, but soon after, the fighting has died down, and there are shouts echoing overhead about Balon Greyjoy’s surrender. Around her, ironborn drop their weapons, looking furious and exhausted. There are orders to take prisoners, and the ironborn look even more insulted that they’re allowed to live.

Toni marches out of the castle with dozens of others, eager to leave the bloodbath it’s become. Her hand is still squeezed into a tight fist.

“You there! _Lad!_ ”

She sees the red man—red priest?—making his way towards her. Toni slows her pace, intrigued. She didn’t get a chance to ask him about his flaming sword earlier. “Had a feeling you’d make it out, my iron-hearted friend!” he declares cheerily, hooking an arm around her shoulders. “There’ll be a feast at Casterly Rock tonight, and a tourney in the coming week! You must come, if only to help me finish my cask of wine!”

Toni snorts quietly, too tired to say much. “I doubt you’ll share.”

He nudges her shoulder roughly. “You’ll come anyway. Don’t need to ask the fire to know it!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys... i don't know how to write action. oh my GOD, i don't know how to write action. did you notice the lack of sword fighting? it's because i don't know how to write it! battle plans? what are those?! i don't even know what Pyke looks like, why did i choose to write about the rebellion?
> 
> please give me feedback on this chapter, i want to make this a good story!


	7. Ned

The feast is still hours away, but Toni finds herself at a loss for what to do. After she trundled into their half-made forge, Jorgen had spotted the armor in her arms and promptly started a shouting match between them. He still helped her bandage her hand and arm, but then the old blacksmith left the forge without a word, and he has yet to return. Toni thinks this might be the silent treatment, and she isn’t sure how long she can last if that’s the case.

She flinches a little, Jorgen’s last words lingering in the air. _“This ain’t a game, woman! Nevermind that you could’ve died out there—You’ll be killed if the wrong person knows you were there at all!”_

And like an asshole, Toni responded with, _“Then keep your fucking mouth shut about it!”_

Hence the silence in the forge now, crushing her very soul. Damn it, Jorgen really knows how to mess with her. Toni hates this. Why wasn’t rock music created earlier? She has half a mind to invent the guitar just to move things along, she can’t think with all this _nothing_.

Toni finishes cleaning off her helmet and stares thoughtfully at the rough, angry faceplate. This sort of fighting is wildly different from what Toni is used to, but the feeling afterward remains the same. She’s on edge and exhausted at the same time, and she needs a way to rid herself of all her nervous energy. Her eyes fall on a broken sword sitting in the hot coals of the hearth, and she wills the metal to heat up faster.

The red priest, Thoros, had requested her services after Toni mentioned she was a smith by trade. He hadn’t seemed surprised at all, but Toni couldn’t tell if that was genuine or not. Thoros seems to have a penchant for being an enigma, though, at heart, he liked drinking and whoring as much as the King. Toni assumes that’s why the priest and Robert Baratheon are such close friends, as they have little else in common.

She pokes at the sword again with tongs, checking its color. Wildfire does strange things to steel, but she thinks it looks hot enough to work with. No wonder the smiths in King’s Landing charge the priest double for his weapons, Thoros ruined his blade in every fight.

Moving to the anvil, Toni begins to hammer together a decent blade. She’s almost finished working the metal when she’s interrupted by heavy footfalls. She pauses, still holding the hammer firmly, and looks up to find Eddard Stark staring directly at her.

Toni goes still and forces herself to hold his gaze. The helm is still out in the open, and she does her best not to look at it. But he must’ve seen it, with the way he’s staring. Jorgen’s words flash through her head again— _if the wrong person knows you were there_ —and Toni wonders, with a growing sense of horror, if Eddard Stark is that sort of man.

Her hammer is a heavy but reassuring weight in her hands. Yet Toni feels a little ill at the thought of hurting him.

Lord Stark gazes at her for a long moment, his eye cold and grey and totally unreadable. Finally, he breaks the silence with a single, grave statement.

“It’s _you_.”

* * *

It starts to bother Ned just as the siege ends, as he observes Jorah Mormont rise as a knight before the King. Ned is glad for the Bear Islander, who often seems self-conscious of his own abilities in comparison to Jeor, but wonders at who else might deserve such an honor. Ned has seen countless men fight bravely today, and some surely deserve a knighthood.

Two names immediately come to mind: Thoros of Myr—who, as a priest serving the Red God, could not be knighted, not even in light of his friendship with Robert—and Collins, the young lad that saved Ned’s life in a moat and cleverly snuck a handful of soldiers into the Grey Tower to force Greyjoy’s surrender. Collins had fought with calm efficiency Ned expected from veteran soldiers, though his sloppy execution suggested he was but a young man beneath that helmet. Either way, that soldier had clearly saved his life, and Ned did not need to be a Lannister to know when he owes a debt.

If only he could find the damn man. Ned had searched as soon as the siege was won, but Collins must’ve been among the crowd of footsoldiers eager to march out of a war zone. He asked a few of his liege lords as well, if there was a Collins among their men, to no avail. Who knew a footsoldier could prove so elusive?

Ned goes to Mormont’s side as soon as the ritual is done, and asks him if he knows of a Collins.

“Collins? Is that a Southern house?” Ser Jorah wonders. “I wouldn’t know him, then.”

“Nay, this one was Northern.” Judging by his armor, at least. “Quite brave for a lad his size. Wore a fearsome helm, too, so I do not know his face.” Ned thinks back to the moat. He is almost certain the young man had survived, though he was injured by the same soldier that tried to gut Ned.

Ned grits his teeth, still feeling the injury keenly. A field medic has already stitched and wrapped the wound, but he refused milk of the poppy. He dislikes how foggy it made his mind, and Ned could not rest until the rest of his men had been tended to. If he moves carefully, there is no risk of tearing stitches, and that’s enough for him.

Ser Jorah has a queer look on his face. “He wore a helm? I think…” he rubs his chin. “You should ask the priest. I think he knows a Collins.”

Ned nods his thanks, and the two of them part ways.

Alas, before Ned finds the priest he comes across Weyl, a soldier of White Harbor, fighting with three other men. Rodrik Cassel huffs at his side.

“That one started the damn betting pool,” Rodrik explains, his tone giving away his distaste over the matter. “I say we let them work it out on their own, though. Serves ‘em right for gambling with each other’s lives.”

Ned agrees, but he remembers that Weyl was one of the soldiers trapped in the moat. “You four! Break it up, right now!” He marches forward, but the sound of his voice is enough to startle the soldiers out of their antics. Mostly.

A dark-haired man shoves at Weyl one last time. “He’s givin’ me a hard time over it! I won the pot fair an’ square!”

Weyl scowls but steps away rather than engage the man. He turns to Lord Stark with a bowed head. “M’lord, it is but a personal quarrel. We bet on similar things, so I reckon Derick an’ I’ll havta split the winnings, yeah?”

Surprised, Ned looks between the pair of them. He hadn’t intervened to help them reach a conclusion, but if it would end the argument… “What did you bet on in the first place?”

Derick’s eyes are shifty, but Weyl lifts his chin. “Bettin’ on our pal, Collins, o’course. I bet that he wouldn’t be cut down in Seagard, Derick bet he’d kill some reavers b’fore he fell dead.”

The lord frowns. “Collins, the lad in the helmet, has he died?”

Derick’s eyes bulge in horror. “‘ _Course not_ , m’lord! Sha—er—He’s only killed some reavers. And since ‘e _hasn’t_ died _at all_ , it counts, don’t it?”

“I suppose it does,” Ned allows, still frowning. There is something off about they way Derick acts, but Ned does not know him well enough to understand what it is.

“And we never went to Seagard, so Collins wasn’t cut down there neither!” Weyl adds quickly. “So we’ve both won since Gevan and a few others thought s—he’d die in Pyke. He only got a little cut up, like you musta saw in the moat, m’lord.”

Derick whips around to glare at Weyl again. “Not that shite again! Collins ain’t gone an’ _saved_ Ned Stark’s life! Sh—Collins woulda said somethin! He ain’t that great with a sword t’ begin wit.”

Despite all the oddness, it seems that these men really do know Collins, at least. Ned clears his throat, reminding the soldiers whose presence they were in. “Where is the lad?”

“Whuh?” Weyl asks blankly, his face going slack with fear. Internally, Ned sighs. It is not the first time he has intimidated his own men without trying. Cat says he’s too grim.

But Ned is growing impatient with these soldiers, and he could care less about his tone at this point in the day. “The _lad_ , Collins. I wish to speak with him.”

The two footsoldiers share a peculiar look. “Er,” Derick’s eyes dart around again. “Well, y’see…”

“The smithy,” Weyl pipes up, but looks away as soon as Ned turns to him. “Collins got his helm all banged up, so maybe you’ll find him at—at the smithy. It’s past those blue tents over there.” He points into the distance, and Ned doesn’t miss the hateful glare Derick throws towards the other soldier. Rodrik asks another question, but Ned is too preoccupied with his own thoughts to hear it.

He can’t help but feel annoyed he’s been passed off in a completely different direction. He only wants to reward the soldier for his service, but this Collins fellow is curiously absent. And if Collins is not at the smithy, will he follow more rumors to track him down? It’s getting rather exhausting, and he has yet to see a proper maester about his gut wound. Not that he _needs_ a maester, but he should rest soon.

Rodrik looks thoughtful as he returns to Ned’s side, and they walk slowly through the encampment. “I remember meeting a strange young woman in Barrowton. Wasn’t she a smith?” He tosses the lord a shrewd look. “Can you recall her name?”

Ned’s next step falters as he remembers. “Toni.”

Of course, Ned knows it. They’ve spoken of her before. But Ned ignores the castellan now, because their discussions about the blacksmith in Barrowton always end with the very same look, no matter how Ned insists he is simply curious about her life. Jory Cassel, the young captain of the guard at Winterfell, is the only other person that shares Ned’s curiosity over the blacksmith. The castellan, on the other hand, is convinced that both his nephew and the Lord of Winterfell are _smitten_ with a short-haired, rebellious blacksmithing woman.

“Weyl mentioned her. Said that the smithy belonged to ‘ _Toni_ ’.”

Ned is not smitten with anyone. He knows he is not. But Rodrik did have to convince him not to seek out Toni; in the end, neither of them could deny how poorly it would be received if the Lord of Winterfell sought the company of a comely, possibly unmarried woman. Even Northerners tend to gossip about that sort of thing, and Ned would not dishonor his family further by encouraging rumors about Jon’s mother. Ned hardly knew Toni, but that would not stop anyone from comparing her likeness to his six-year-old son.

He does not know her, but he _is_  intrigued by her. And the thought of getting the chance to speak with her again… Ned frowns and shakes his head. Weyl could have easily been speaking of a man. “You don’t think a woman would march with us, do you?”

His old friend shrugs. “ _That_ woman might.”

Ned frowns, looking to argue with Rodrik, but he sees how exhausted the man it. He clasps the man shoulder firmly. “Head back to our encampment, my friend, I’ll see you at the feast.” The castellan shoots him one last meaningful look before he departs, and the Ned is left alone with his thoughts again.

Despite Rodrik’s words, Ned doubts that it is Toni that Weyl spoke of. A woman, even one as strong-willed as that smith, would not willingly walk into a war zone. It’s preposterous. He shouldn’t get his hopes up. Ned isn’t sure what he’s hoping _for_ , but he certainly shouldn’t waste thoughts on what-ifs… But wouldn’t it be serendipitous if she were here? There is much he’d like to ask her about, from her unusual accent to her supposed talent as a smith. She is perhaps too talkative for a woman, but Ned thought it charming. He liked her company well enough.

But there’s a tourney to be planned in the coming week, not mention dozens of meetings regarding the march back home afterward. He still hasn’t found that blasted Collins yet, and now he’s thinking of some woman that is over a thousand miles away…

The smithy finally comes into view. Ned looks up, and he sucks in a breath as he comes across a smith with their back to him.

Her shoulders are somewhat broad, stretching and rippling with lean muscle, narrowing into a delicate, feminine waist. Her hair is pitch black and still, as he remembers, almost entirely shorn off. But seeing her in the light of day, Ned knows that his memory does not do this woman justice.

She pauses, lowering the hammer and turning to face Ned. He searches her face for a moment. There is no denying it.

“It’s _you_ ,” Ned says finally, amazed and disturbed by her presence in the midst of a war zone. She really is a blacksmith. Then, remembering his manners Ned adds, “Good day, my lady.” He steps forward and then abruptly stops himself. She is as fair as any lady at court, but that isn’t reason enough to kiss her hand. He’s glad Rodrik isn’t here to notice.

The blacksmith blinks rapidly at him, rubbing smoke from her eyes. “Good day, my lord.” She straightens her posture but does little more to make herself more presentable. There’s a streak of black soot across her cheek, and her hair, still curiously shorn off, looks about as neat as a bird’s nest. After a moment, she gives him a short bow, which is an improvement from the drunken curtsy she attempted last they met.

“Um. Can I help you with anything?” Toni asks plainly, regarding him with wide brown eyes. “I—I’m a smith if you remember.” Her hand is still tightly wrapped around a hammer, but she gestures around the room as though her appearance isn’t proof enough.

He’s struck by a great rush of fondness for her, and at the same time, a sickening sense of self-loathing for it. He should leave. How is it that he feels more danger in this smithy than he did storming the gates of Pyke this morning?

“I heard tell of a soldier coming here earlier,” Ned speaks in a rush, pulling eyes from her. “One with a dark grey helm—” His eyes fall on the very same helmet as he speaks, lying innocently on a wooden table. “There, this one. Do you know where its owner has gone?”

Ned turns the helm over in his hands for a few moments, counting the scuff marks and gouges from crossbow bolts. The helm only has superficial damages, still perfectly intact and usable. He realizes that Toni has not answered him yet, and looks up.

Upon seeing the look on her face, Ned sighs, unable to hide his frustration. “I would like you to know,” he says slowly, “That I have been met by the same peculiar expression several times today, every time I’ve asked about a Collins, before being sent off to bother someone else.” He watches for the blacksmith’s reaction, but now she is reserved. “You wear the same peculiar look. This time, I would much appreciate some answers, Toni.”

She seems startled, at least, to hear him use her name, but then she seems to pull back whatever emotion she’s shown. Her voice is wary as she asks, “Why are you looking for Collins?”

“You know him, then?” Ned presses.

Toni looks away, attending her tools to give herself a moment to answer. Ned draws nearer, and, seeing that it does not rouse her suspicion, steps closer to the table she works at. The forge is hot and humid, making his face flush with color, but it is not so uncomfortable. He watches her take a piece of cooling iron off the anvil and quench the sword, then moves to the hearth to check the coals. Every movement is deft and purposeful, and she does not struggle to lift or maneuver any of the heavy tools. Ned has yet to see any of her finished works, but he can already tell she is a competent smith.

“Yes, I know Collins,” Toni says finally, meeting his eyes again. “But you haven’t answered my question yet.”

“He is not in any sort of trouble,” Ned tells her, relieved at her response. “Not to my knowledge, anyway. This morning I fought with him, and I owe him a great debt.”

Her eyebrows rise. “Collins didn’t say anything about a debt.”

Ned shakes his head. “Some men have already been knighted for their deeds in battle. I would gladly recommend the lad for a knighthood, or a place in Winterfell’s guard if I could only track him down.” He sets the helmet down gently. “He most likely saved my life today, and at the very least, I wish to thank him. If you see him, my lady, please tell him.”

He steps back, deciding he’s wasted enough of today searching for Collins. Though he wants nothing more than to learn more about this blacksmith, he has to leave. The heat of the smithy has done nothing but exacerbate his wounds, and Ned thinks he ought to spend his time hunting down a maester or a medic now. A sharp pain grows in his gut. He nods once to Toni and steps out of the smithy to breath cooler air.

“Lord Stark,” Toni follows him out of the forge, looking terribly contrite. He pauses and sways unsteadily for a moment, but her gaze is fixed on something in the distance. “About Collins… “

“Yes, my lady?” He prompts her, though his voice comes out quieter than he’d like.

“I don’t think you’ll—Are you alright?” Her tone shifts from timid to demanding in an instant, surprising Ned. Suddenly, her gaze is focused on him with an intensity he has not seen before, and she steps closer to peer at his face.

Alarmed by her closeness, Ned leans away, but the blacksmith is undeterred. “I am well, my lady,” he says resolutely.

“You look pale,” she replies. “Didn’t you see a medic after the siege ended?” Immediately, her eyes drift down to where his wound lies. “Is this—you haven’t been treated yet? For a gut wound? You’re—” She makes an aborted movement towards his abdomen, intending to check the injury, but thinks better of it.

He moves away again, his face perhaps even redder than before. “I said I am well, Lady Toni. A medic stitched that cut.” Though he wonders how she noticed the wound in the first place? The wrappings are hidden by his jerkin. Ned takes another step, and a wave of sharp pain rolls over him.

The woman lunges, exclaiming something, and Ned loses a few seconds of sight to blackness before finding himself standing upright again with a warm, solid fixture beneath one arm to prop him up. Toni has one arm wrapped tightly around his waist, and her other hand holds his left arm around her neck. She’s so much shorter than him that he’s slouched over a little, but still standing.

“Hold on, hold on, holy crap, can you hear me? Are you gonna die? Walk with me, you moron—” she gasps, pushing him in a particular direction. “You’re a lord, for fuck’s sake… shouldn’t be an issue… can’t deal with… and you _still_ haven’t...“

Idly, Ned thinks he ought to be offended by whatever’s she’s saying, but he feels too cold and sluggish to do anything about it. He trudges forward, trying to pay attention, but the sound of her voice fades from his ears and his vision darkens until he can sense nothing at all.

* * *

Eddard Stark is a total mess. He might be more of a mess than Toni. It takes a special brand of idiocy to walk around with a gut wound for six hours for no discernable reason. The wound itself had been stitched closed, but it wasn’t healed and it wasn’t the only injury Lord Stark sustained. He didn’t completely pass out, at least, so that’s a good sign.

Toni dumps the half-conscious lord onto a straw pallet with as much grace as one could manage when carrying twelve stones of almost-dead-weight. Seriously, this dude is so much bigger than she remembers. He moans in pain but opens his eyes again as Toni sits beside him.

“Lord Stark,” she says clearly, “There aren’t any maesters nearby, but I asked Jorgen to look for one. In the meantime—fuck, look at me,” Toni interrupts herself, reaching over to pat his face. His eyes are glazed over, but he does his best to focus on her. “I can’t tell what’s wrong without checking, but I’m thinking you have some internal bleeding from the fall.”

“Fall…?” He croaks slowly, puzzled.

She nods. “I don’t think it’s serious, though.” He would’ve collapsed earlier if the hemorrhaging was too extensive for his body to handle. “Just stay off your feet for now. If it’s worse than what I think—well, then it’s definitely better if you stay off your feet, and a maester should be here soon.” If he begins to look worse, though, at least Toni is trained in modern first aid. However, Lord Stark doesn’t know that, and she isn’t sure how he would react to her cutting open his shirt and examining his bare body. “Fucking hell, this is a mess.”

He raises his head curiously, clearly overhearing her. Toni never claimed to have the perfect bedside manner.

Lord Stark blinks owlishly at her and clears his throat. “How did you…” he trails off without finishing the thought. He turns, looking down at her hand still resting on his cheek. “Help me sit up,” he says quietly. “Please.”

Toni pulls her hand away and frowns. But he probably needs water too, so she obliges, curling an arm behind his back the way she did in the moat. With her assistance he sits up very carefully, flinching only a little as the motion tugs at his stitches.

She sets a rolled-up blanket behind him and then goes to pull away. He catches her wrist in one swift movement, startling the hell out of her. “Uh, Lord Stark?” Toni says pointedly, trying not to sound irritated.

His eyes are fixed on the bandages over her fingers. The fingers she injured _this morning_ when an ironborn held a knife to her face. “How did this happen?” He asks calmly, but when he meets her gaze, Toni knows that he’s already figured out the answer.

Damn, she really sucks at keeping a secret identity. Toni sighs, not exactly disappointed that the gig is up. Jorgen’s worries are valid, but looking at Eddard Stark now… he doesn’t want to hurt her any more than she wants to hurt him. There’s an undercurrent of something much more to that feeling, but she doesn’t have the energy to look into it further. She just knows she can trust him with this.

Gently, she pulls her wrist away, and he lets her go without protest. “You saw it happen,” Toni explains bluntly. “It was either my hand or my eye. I can spare a few fingers,” she shrugs, the same way she did when she described it to Jorgen. “And if I hadn’t done anything, I think they would’ve kept drowning people in the moat, and—and I couldn’t get to that other guy before he died, so I had to at least try—”

“Toni,” he interrupts her firmly, and her words fizzle out. “Toni, you saved my life. You do not need to explain yourself to me.”

“I know,” Toni says instantly, fiercely, but as she looks down at him she just sees that Redwyne soldier with his intestines spilling out into the sea. “Christ, you almost died. I didn’t want to see anyone else die like that.”

“Then I am grateful you were there, I suppose,” he gives her a wry little smile, puzzled with her strange words. “Though I have no idea how you managed it.”

A breathless little giggle escapes her lips. She remembers the red priest whispering little things about climbing ropes and crossbow formations just before they reached Pyke. “Thoros helped. I think we’re drinking buddies now.”

“Thoros, the drunk red priest?” Eddard raises his eyebrows in astonishment. “Truly? I—” he coughs suddenly and grimaces at the strain it puts on his wound.

“Oh, right,” Toni says suddenly, leaving his side to look for a waterskin. Most people opt for ale or wine, but they don’t really understand what sanitization is yet. Toni boils water and sanitizes anything and everything she can, religiously, because she’ll be damned if she dies of dysentery of all things.

She sits down beside Lord Stark again and hands him the waterskin. “Drink and sit still. If you die now, I’ll definitely be blamed.”

He gives her a brief look, a mixture of offended and amused, before uncapping the skin and taking a few sips.

At least he’s a better patient than most of her old team members. Bruce was the only one with the patience to stay in the sick bay as long as recommended. Toni tended to sneak out once she was well enough to hold a tablet, and Steve would insist on leaving the bed so someone else could take his place, citing his super-metabolism as reason enough.

As much as Toni hates what the Avengers became, she misses what they were.

“When do you think you’ll start marching North?” Toni asks absently, trying to pull herself out of her wallowing. “Jorgen’s been wondering.”

The lord eyes her neutrally. “I have yet to discuss it with the King, but I expect we’ll leave before the next moon.”

Toni nods. Jorgen will be relieved to hear it. He dislikes the South more than Toni had expected.

“Is Jorgen your husband?” Lord Stark asks suddenly.

It’s the obvious conclusion. Plenty of people have assumed it, and Jorgen and Toni were content to let rumors spread unhindered.  Toni hasn’t discussed it with him, but from the way he acts, Jorgen isn’t interested in romantic relationships at all. Still, she hadn’t expected Lord Stark to bring it up.

Toni turns to him, cocking an eyebrow. “What an incredibly personal question to ask, Eddard Stark,” she drawls.

The lord frowns at her, debating something in his head. “Most people call me Ned, rather than Eddard,” he says after a time. “And it is not too personal to ask. I remember Jorgen from Barrowton, and he spoke on your behalf.”

“Ned, huh?” Toni repeats, amused and surprised. She never considered someone as solemn and stern as this man would prefer a nickname. But, if they’re sharing personal information… “My full name’s Antonia, actually, but no one calls me that.” Lord Stark, _Ned_ , gazes at her in open curiosity at her remark. Toni flashes a crooked smile. “As for Jorgen—I’m lucky to have him, but I think we’d have killed each other by now if we were married.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Who taught you how to smith?” he asks next. Sheesh. Apparently, she’s agreed to a game of Twenty Questions.

“My father made me learn, I guess,” Toni answers carefully. It’s not completely false: Howard did pay for her education at MIT so she could become an engineer. Just, not a mechanical engineer. She likes her software as much as the next programmer, but Toni likes to build, so she took a lot of classes for it. “I taught myself a lot, though,” Toni adds unnecessarily, thinking of Afghanistan.

“Why?” He asks, puzzled. “I could never teach my daughter such skills.”

Toni shrugs. “I don’t think you can really compare. Your daughter’s only—what, two?”

“Almost three,” he says faintly, and a gentle smile graces his stern face at the thought. “Her name is Sansa.”

It’s definitely wrong of Toni to think that Ned Stark looks incredibly attractive when he acts like a dad. Definitely, _definitely_ wrong. But it’s terribly endearing.

“Toni!” Jorgen calls from outside. Toni tears her eyes away from Ned—it’s so easy to think of him as just _Ned_ — and rises to her feet, and signals to the old blacksmith and the even older maester beside him.

The maester scowls as soon as he sets his eyes on Lord Stark. “My lord. You’ve overdone it, haven’t you? My dear lady, would you fetch us some water?”

Toni blinks, distracted by the guilty look on Ned’s face. This must be a maester from Winterfell, for them to be so familiar. “I’ve left it by the bed. He collapsed just outside the smithy about a quarter-hour ago,” Toni proceeds to tell the maester everything she can, and the elder man listens patiently, shooting Lord Stark a few disapproving looks along the way.

“I see. I heard you fell into a moat during the siege, so I’ll make a poultice for the bruising…” the maester begins to arrange materials around himself, and Toni moves a small table to his side. “Oh, you are most kind, my dear,” he thanks her gently.

Toni nods, glancing at the herbs and salves with interest. “You can use this tent as long as you need to, maester. I’ll see myself out.” Jorgen won’t mind if they share a tent, even if he’s angry with her. Or maybe she’ll just go back to the smithy, and work on Thoros’s sword—

“Maester Luwin, I think Lady Collins should stay,” Ned speaks up, and his tone brokers no argument.

Toni whirls around, eyeing the lord with suspicion. The maester frowns, equally confused. “My lord…?”

Calmly, Lord Stark turns to the maester. “Lady Collins was among the Northern soldiers that fell into that moat, and she has not seen a maester either. I would ask you to treat her as well.”

Maester Luwin stares between then, and when Toni makes no protest, he nods. “Of course, my lord. Lady Collins, if you would wait outside, I will come to you after I have finished here.”

“Okay,” Toni says, bewildered by both of them. Ned Stark’s adamant tone, Maester Luwin’s calm acceptance—she’s dumbfounded. Northerners always seemed to surprise her. “Okay,” she repeats, feeling a smile creep onto her lips.  

* * *

 

 **A/N:** Damn, I really thought I'd get to introduce ~~teenage Tyrion~~ some more characters into this chapter, but I got too caught up with Ned and Toni! 


	8. Casterly Rock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hot damn this is a long chapter! i couldn't figure out how to break it up, so i didn't!

Maester Luwin is as kind and grandfatherly as he looks. “This may sting,” he warns Toni sympathetically, before dabbing a greenish antiseptic over her fingers. Toni fights a smile at how gently he works. In most cases, Toni would have objections to being treated like a delicate flower, but after all the Nurse Ratchets she’s encountered as a superhero, a little caution is greatly appreciated.

Still, Toni can’t help but watch Luwin like a hawk while he works. She’s not fond of all the pseudoscience going on in Westeros, and even among maesters, their studies are horribly incomplete when it comes to biology. But Luwin seems very self-aware of his limitations.

“This is made from the roots of cicely,” he explains, noticing her interest. “It’s a very common plant on the continent, but most people do not realize how useful it is for cleaning wounds and warding off infection. I’m afraid there is little I can do to heal this hand faster unless I put your arm in a sling to keep you from using it,” Luwin says plainly, eyeing the calluses on her palm.

“I can handle a few more scars,” Toni says dismissively. “What do you have to help with pain? I heal pretty fast, but I think I have bruises on top of my bruises and I’m going to feel all of them tomorrow.” She would kill a man for a bottle of aspirin.

The maester raises his eyebrows, amused. “I have a few different remedies for bruising. If you feel comfortable showing me your injuries, and if Lord Stark would be so kind to give us some privacy, I will make it quick.”

Ned blinks and then nods in vigorous agreement. “Of course. I need to speak with His Grace, actually, so—”

“You will do no such thing,” Maester Luwin says sternly, turning to the young lord. “If you are to leave now, it is to return to your quarters and rest, my lord. I implore you not to do anything strenuous for a few more hours.”

“I—” Ned grimaces, but with Luwin shaking his head at the young lord, it looks a thousand times less intimidating. “You know best, Luwin,” he admits defeat, and then his eyes are on Toni again, pale grey in the mid-afternoon light. “Take care, Lady Collins.”

Toni smiles. “Thank you, Lord Stark,” she says, but it feels mechanical. It’s begun to occur to her that she’ll be undressing in front of a stranger. She likes Luwin, but she has no idea how he would react to seeing the state she’s in. Toni has scars: ugly snarled skin from gunshots and angry pink burns, cuts, and scrapes from her workshop, warped and half-stitched gashes from fighting all manners of actual supervillains. She no longer has the arc reactor, but her chest is the only spot she cared to get a skin graft for the scarring.

It’s just the two of them now, though, and Toni feels more and more like a coward the longer she stalls, fumbling with the ties of her outer tunic. “Listen, uh, Maester Luwin,” she hedges. “I really only need something for the bruises, nothing else. Okay?”

Maester Luwin places a hand on her shoulder and gives her a friendly, understanding smile. “I am only here to assist where I can. I earn my links through healing others, not judging them,” he promises, tapping the chain around his neck. Toni nods, looking away.

“I hear you fought alongside our lord today,” Luwin says lightly, as Toni finally pulls off her tunic. “Would you tell me about it? I think some of the men tend to embellish their accounts, but I’d like yours as well, my dear, as part of my records.”

Like an interview, Toni thinks with delight. She likes giving interviews. Even when reporters take her out of context, she likes to put on a show and tell a good story. “Of course, Luwin. I hope you write this down later. For me, the battle started when I met Thoros of Myr, drinking some disgustingly sweet drink from a wineskin. He’s a priest, and I’m not one for religion, but he lit up his sword with bright red flames, and I have to admit, there’s something watching over that man, or he’d have died a hundred times over by now…”

* * *

The halls echo all around with cheerful voices and music. Despite the rather drab appearance of Casterly Rock, it is still grand in the eyes of most, and indeed, a fortress worthy of hosting the King and his lords. The Rock is still undergoing vast renovations, delayed by the Greyjoys’ attacks on Lannisport and Seagard, but the King had ordered a feast and a tourney, so that is what he will receive. Lord Tywin had no issue lending money to the crown. Not when it gave him firm control of the whole kingdom’s finances.

 _He thinks he’s strong enough to pull the King’s strings, but His Grace is a big, lumbering fool, the most difficult sort of fool to manage_. Tyrion Lannister scoffs to himself and takes another sip from his glass. Jaime snuck him a bottle before the King arrived since the man was bound to dry out their cellars with the way he celebrated.

Far off, he can hear a new song start up, something new to memorialize the King’s victory in Pyke. Tyrion hops down from his alcove, wine glass (and bottle) in hand, and makes his way to the upper west wing, closest to the sea and farthest from the cisterns and sewers several stories below. He’s seen enough drainage pipes to last him a lifetime, but he could, at the very least, say that Casterly Rock was now the most hygienic city in Westeros.

Seeking out the fresh air by the sea, Tyrion steps out onto the balcony. It is as grand as the rest of the Rock, stretching around the jagged edges of the natural cliffside, but it is also blessedly empty. The feast is on a lower level, which has been sectioned off by Lannister guardsmen.

“Thoros? Thoros, what the hell? Where’d you go? Shit.” A quiet voice mutters, and then a woman stumbles around the corner, looking terribly out of place. Her hair is dark, glossy, and cut like a boy’s. Though she wears a plain, roughspun dress, she stands with good posture and an elegant figure. Too refined to be a tavern girl or servant, but Tyrion cannot decide what else she could be.

The woman immediately spots Tyrion, who’s frozen on the spot, and gapes at him. “Who the fuck are you?” She asks without preamble.

Balking, Tyrion frowns at the woman. “I should be asking _you_ that. I live here.” He looks around, but there is no one else coming around the corner to accompany her. She is quite comely, but she must be a peasant that snuck in if she has no escort. “Mayhaps you should leave, my lady. ” He must admit it would be a wonderful sight to behold if his father chanced upon her, but Tyrion did not have the heart to leave anyone at the mercy of Tywin Lannister. “Lest you are caught by someone less forgiving than I.”

She steps closer, peering down at him in the dim light with a pout. “I would, but I don’t actually know where I am. You should put up exit signs, or OSHA will come after you.”

Tyrion’s brow furrows. “Who?”

She flaps a hand dismissively. “Nevermind. How do I get back to the—” she made a wide, flailing gesture with her hands, imitating a large archway. “You know. The thing.”

Surprisingly, Tyrion knows what she means. She can only be talking about the main entrance of the Rock, a great natural cavern with carved steps. “The Lion’s Mouth?”

She snaps her fingers and grins. “That’s the one. How do I get back there?”

He points to his right but hesitates to speak. “It is on the opposite side of the castle, my lady. I doubt you could make it there in—your state.”

“Then take me there,” she replies promptly and raises an eyebrow in challenge. “Or are you busy drinking alone in the dark?” Tyrion shifts, disliking how observant she is. Before he can even answer, though, she continues. “That was rude, sorry,” she says frankly. “But you’re kinda young, aren’t you? Don’t overdo it. Here, I’ll help.”

She comes to a stop by his side, far closer than Tyrion thinks is proper, and deftly swipes the goblet from his hand. She begins to walk in the direction he pointed towards.

Tyrion stares after her. He should protest. His father would never let a peasant woman talk to him in such a fashion. But Tyrion is not his father. He has no wish to become his father. He follows, and she slows to his pace. “What is your name, my lady?”

Before answering, she drains his glass of arbor gold. “Toni. Pleasure to meet you, my lord,” she says suddenly, dipping into an alarmingly off-balanced curtsy.

Tyrion stifles his laugh. “That was dreadful, Lady Toni.”

“I know,” she scrunches up her perfect nose. “I don’t know why I keep doing it.”

“Do not try it again,” he warns, “I’m afraid I’ll be no help if you fall over.”

He’s pleased when she snorts, grinning widely at him. “So who are you, my lord? Forgive my ignorance, I’m but a silly Northern brute,” she apologizes dramatically, jutting out her jaw and pulling a ‘grim’ look.

By the gods, she’s far too pretty to be here with a dwarf. Tyrion resents her for a moment, the same way he sometimes resents his siblings’ natural charm and beauty. “I admit, it is not often I have to introduce myself. There aren’t any other highborn dwarfs to confuse me with,” Tyrion says. “I am Tyrion Lannister, the youngest son of Tywin.”

Her head swivels around to face him, astonished. “Son of Tywin? Oh, jeez. You don’t just live here, you own this place.”

A bitter feeling rises in his throat. “Casterly Rock is my father’s seat, not mine,” Tyrion amends her statement. Toni takes a few steps to the right, turning the wrong way, and Tyrion calls, “This way, my lady.”

Toni turns on her heel and returns to his side, her hand drifting across his shoulder. “Right on, my lord.” She points a finger at him and then flicks it up with a curious noise. Tyrion’s never seen anything like it, and it seems improper, but he says nothing. “Jesus, this place is huge. What do you do all day?”

“Oh, this and that. Read in the library. Take history lessons with the maesters. Explore the caverns… ” Tyrion grimaces. “Well, not so much anymore. My father has entrusted me with the management and construction of all the cisterns and sewage lines of the Rock.”

“Wow, that’s a shitty job,” Toni replies automatically, eyes going wide.

Tyrion shoots her a flat look.

She holds up her hands. “...In my defense, I’m drunk.”

He sighs. “Well, you are not wrong, I suppose.” She perks up. “But that does not mean it was funny.”

She scoffs and elbows his side like they’re old friends. “Oh, come on. It was pretty funny.”

“It was too _obvious_ ,” Tyrion insists. “If you’re to make a fool of me, at least make it clever, I beg of you.”

Toni grins deviously, her dark eyes glimmering in the torchlight. There is no malice, only glee in her expression. “Are you inviting me to make fun of your shortcomings?”

Tyrion’s eyes narrow. “Still not very clever of you, my lady,” he says resolutely.

She laughs again, clear and pleasant as a bell. “Oh, you don’t like my humor? Then tell _me_  a joke, Lord Tyrion,” she beckons, looking him straight in the eye once more. “And we’ll see who’s clever.”

A blush creeps onto his cheeks, but the halls are dark enough to conceal it. How strange, to find himself alone with a woman as fair as this one. She is much older than him, not to mention more charming and graceful than he could ever be, and it only serves to make him feel more inferior. It ought to be Jaime in his place or some other handsome knight beside her. She is…

 _She is candid and fond of shit jokes_. Tyrion rallies, taking a long pull from the wine bottle in his hands. “As the lady commands,” he obliges. “I once walked into a brothel with a honeycomb and a jackass…"

 

* * *

"I don’t believe you. Dragons don’t _get_ that big!” Toni is sure of it. She’s seen a dragon before. Or something _like_ a dragon. A magic user set one loose in Hong Kong, and Toni was there for the clean up after Dr. Strange stopped it. She later had the Department of Damage Control send him a bill, and hopefully, her people are giving him hell for not sticking around. But that’s beside the point. Tyrion claims to have seen the bones of a much greater beast.

“The ones that Aegon and his sisters rode were that large,” Tyrion insists, his mismatches eyes bright and keen. “Each tooth as long as an arm, and thick as a tree trunk!”

“Uh, are you using my body or yours for these proportions?”

Tyrion rolls his eyes. “I have always had a fascination with dragons, my lady.” He pauses, and his expression shifts. “When I was young, I would spend all my hours in the library, studying their history. I would demand stories from my maesters and septons, and I made a point of seeing the catacombs beneath the Red Keep when I visited last. I do not exaggerate. Dragons were fearsome beasts, Toni.”

He really isn’t joking anymore. Toni tries to imagine it. Tyrion speaks about dragons with such reverence, but all Toni can think of is the Targaryens, and the overwhelming control they had over the continent. “If the dragons hadn’t died out, would you still be under Targaryen rule?”

“We all would,” Tyrion replies, casting her a curious look. “But the Targaryens went mad, and with each generation, their dragons were smaller and smaller. The last dragon in Westeros was no bigger than a cat.” Tyrion sighs wistfully. “Dragons aren’t meant to be caged. It is why they withered away: kings had to restrain the beasts to keep them from terrorizing the smallfolk.”

This startles Toni. “I thought that was the whole point of the Targaryens—that they were the ones that could control dragons?” Jesus. She’s not drunk enough to be talking about this. Dictators, monarchs, they all give her hives. “Their dynasty lasted nearly three centuries, how did they turn out so mad?”

“I think it was that inbreeding that did it,” Tyrion puts in, tugging on a pale strand of hair. “They wed brother and sister for generations.”

Toni rolls her eyes. All that ‘pure bloodline’ stuff was horseshit. All the classism here is bullshit too, but she’s not exactly part of the bourgeoisie in her own world either. “It’s too bad about the dragons, though. I think I’d like to see a real one here.”

Tyrion nods avidly. “As would I…” He turns his eyes to the distance. “I told my father a little while ago that I wanted to go on an expedition to Essos.”

Toni arches an eyebrow in interest. Tyrion looks apprehensive, so she nudges his shoulder. “Go on.”

He doesn’t look at her but takes one last gulp of wine to finish the bottle. “We could certainly afford it, and besides, it would get me out of the way, wouldn’t it? I bring shame to the family with every breath I take,” he says sarcastically, shaking his head. “So I thought Father would be alright with it. I need to do something, now that I’m an adult, so I asked. I _declared_. I wanted to see the world, I wanted to search for dragon eggs in the Doom of Valyria—or at least get close to it, as I’ve no death wish—but what does he say?”

Toni can already sense where this is going. Tyrion glances at her with despair and anger in his eyes. “He tells me that under no circumstances am I _ever_ to ask him that again. And then he gives me a job. You already know it.”

Toni lifts her head, checking to see that they’re truly alone. She’s seen a few sentries and servants on their walk, but this hallway is empty. “Tyrion, your father’s a jackass.”

Tyrion freezes, looking at her in alarm. “Pardon?”

She shrugs. “It’s ‘cause you’re a dwarf, right? Why he’s not going to let you inherit this place. Why he’s not letting you do anything. He’s a jackass for it.”

“I—I never said that,” Tyrion points out. “I never said I wouldn’t inherit the Rock.”

Toni hums skeptically. “But you said it yourself. This is your father’s seat. Anyone that _knew_ they’d inherit a castle would be telling the whole damn world about it. But, Ser Jaime can’t inherit anything. Neither can Cersei, as far as I know. You’re next in line,” Toni insists, “It’s your birthright. And he’s going to take away your birthright on a technicality.”

The young lord watches her, barely maintaining his composure. “My lady… do not say such things. I will not tolerate slights against my lord father.” He looks lost between indignant, furious, and heartbroken.

“Okay,” Toni agrees, but even she can hear the sarcasm in her tone. She can’t help it. They’re so different, and yet all Toni can think of is _Howard_  and how much he kept from her, how stupid she was to think so highly of him for so long. She sighs. “I don’t mean to upset you, Tyrion. Should’ve warned you earlier, but I tend to speak my mind.”

He laughs bitterly. “Yes, my lady, I’ve already noticed this,” he says sullenly, "I think that's your best and worst quality." The sounds of celebration and music grow louder as they near the entrance of the Rock. The youngest Lannister begins to fiddle aimlessly with the glass in his hands. Great, she’s gone and screwed him up by talking about Tywin. She can’t leave like this. Tyrion is spirited and clever, and Toni will never forgive herself if she’s the reason he doesn’t become something great. “We’re nearly there. Just down those stairs is the Redwyne encampment, and beyond that should be the Northern houses.”

Maybe she’s putting too much faith in a kid she just met, but she fiercely believes Tyrion could easily outshine his father if he tries.

Toni knows a dismissal when she hears it. That doesn’t mean she listens to it. She crouches down to Tyrion’s height and pulls the empty bottle from him. “Tyrion, don’t be ignorant. I don’t see the point in you denying how shitty Tywin’s been. Family is important, but that’s not the Lannister motto, is it?”

“ _Hear me roar,_ ” Tyrion supplies reluctantly. “That’s the _real_  one, at least.”

Toni cocks her head to the side. “No one’s going to give you anything, Tyrion, you have to take it. Make a name for yourself, build your own reputation. Or you’ll be standing the shadows your whole life.” I sound so tacky, but at least he’s listening. “You can either be Lord Tywin’s youngest son, or you can be Lord Tyrion Lannister.” Toni rises to her feet, setting aside the goblet and wine bottle.

Tyrion shakes his head at her, but he doesn’t seem as upset anymore. “And… who are you, my lady?” He calls to her, curiosity blooming across his face. “Who’s daughter? The Lady Toni of what?”

Toni takes a few steps down the stairs leisurely, shrugging her shoulders. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? Here, no one knows who the fuck my father was. If I told you his name, you still wouldn’t know him. But you know me, Tyrion. You’ll remember me.”

The young man is clearly conflicted. "Will I see you again, Toni?"

She pauses, frowning. "I don't know. But I hope I do."

* * *

Toni returns to the Northern encampment with more cheers than she expected. Soldiers and stewards and squires grin and raise their glasses. “Has Derrick been spreading stories?” Toni asks, accepting a pint with caution.

A squire shakes his head vigorously. “No, no, I heard it from Winterfell’s men-at-arms! And Digg heard it from a Bear Islander, you know they’ve got fighting women too, but not like you! You stormed Pyke with the Red Priest, in armor you built yerself!” He gazes at her with awestruck hazel eyes.

Another man butts in, nudging her elbow gently. He’s almost as short as her, putting them at eye-level among crowded tables. “You saved my friend Jerron in one of those courtyards, m’lady,” he informs her solemnly. Toni stares, uncomprehendingly. The man nods. “Screamed in his face not to take that arrow out his arm, it nicked an artery but we didn’t see it till the medic saw ‘im.” The men around them frown and murmur to each other, but Toni only catches the words ‘swamp’ and ‘crannog.’

Toni shakes her head. “I didn’t. I don’t—I honestly don’t remember that.” But she can remember a soldier beside her, struck with a crossbow bolt. His sigil was something green, like the lizard-thing on this man’s cloak. “I’m not sure.”

“Ah, but it was you, in that queer armor. Funny helmet for a Northerner, right?” He points out. Toni nods, and he grins, crinkling the skin around his green-hazel eyes. “I’ll remember your quick-thinking, Lady Collins,” he promises.

He seems nice, so Toni grins back. “Toni,” she corrects him, shaking his hand. “And the helmet is funny, but it’s much more practical than some of the other helms I’ve seen.” She casts a meaningful look towards a few Lannisters in polished lion-themed armor, and they all begin to snicker.

Toni is handed another beer. She’s dragged into a clumsy dance with Weyl. She helps Jerron’s friend steal a whole roast goat from Manderly’s men, and re-enacts the Battle at the Trident using the roast as the silver prince. A young steward gets down on one knee and professes his love to her, and Toni hands him a leg of mutton as she declines his offer.

She has fun. It’s been too long since she’s gone to a party of this magnitude, and the context of it hardly mattered to her. There’s even good wines and spirits, stronger than the ales served at local taverns, so Toni gets a comfortable buzz outdrinking three young Lannister soldiers.

The rest of the night passes in a haze of cheer and music—and the next morning, there are _still_  festivities going on when Toni emerges from her tent. In fact, there’s a great deal of commotion. Wooden structures are going up with brilliant black-and-yellow banners. Barrels, wagons, carriages of supplies are passing into the castle. When she sees a long stretch of land being cleared for a series of wooden bleachers, Toni remembers that the king had ordered no only a feast, but a week-long tourney to celebrate his victory.

“Jorgen, what sort of events do they hold at a king’s tourney?” Toni asks as she steps into the forge. A pile of battered armor, weapons, and other commission work is scattered on the few tables they have. Toni reads over some of the papers in alarm. “Why do we have _ten_  orders for new shields? Who’s asking for an oaken roundel with dozen red ants on a yellow field by tomorrow night?” Where are they supposed to find an artist on such short notice? She doesn’t even have the right wood for this.

Toni looks past the armors and freezes.

Jorgen is tending to the fire, but what gives her pause is the small boy standing with him. The kid looks around six years old, with chestnut curls and a pale, aristocratic face. He’s wearing a dark cloak over his green shirt, but even the cloak looks expensive.

“That must be an Ambrose looking for a shield. For the joust, I’d think,” the boy pipes up, grinning. “Maybe Lord Arthur’s brother, but I don’t recall his name.”

“Okay,” Toni says dumbly, looking at the papers again. Maybe the boy’s here to fetch some knight’s belonging? But he’s dressed so finely, and speaks so well, he must be highborn. “Um… Jorgen?” Toni looks to the grumpy old smith for help.

“I think he’s lost,” Jorgen shrugs. “Or mad.”

“I’m not,” the boy protests immediately, stepping towards Toni. His eyes dance around the room as he examines the different armors and half-made weapons. “I just wanted to see if you were real.” His gaze settles on Toni, piercing her with bright golden eyes. “Are you Lady Collins, then? You’re like a Dornish princess warrior!” He exclaims.

Toni steps away from the kid. She’s not comfortable around kids, to begin with, but they’re in a dangerous workshop with knives and fire and heavy armor just waiting to topple over and crush him _Oh no he's gonna die he's too cute to die—_

“You…. _really_ can’t be in here,” Toni says finally. She leans over and pushes a sword back against the wall, already fearing it’ll slip and cut the kid in half. “Yeah. No. I can’t do this, I don’t have insurance. Where are your parents?”

The boy just smiles innocently. “They’re in the Great Hall, eating breakfast with Lord Tywin and King Robert.”

Jorgen’s hammer clatters to the ground. “They’re _what_?”

Toni’s eyes narrow. “Alright, what do you want, an autograph?”

“What’s an autograph?”

“That was a joke. A jape. Moving on,” Toni gestures towards a chair and the boy eagerly takes a seat across from her. “I’m Toni, some people call me Collins, and whether or not I’m real is an entirely too philosophical question to be asking.”

The boy’s face flickers with confusion. “What’s… philo-softacle…?”

Wow, she’s messing this up in so many ways. Jorgen is going to judge her so hard for this. Toni sighs, running a hand through her hair. “Nevermind. I just don’t know what to say to you, sweetheart, I’m not some shining knight.”

“Oh, well, of course, you’re not a knight,” the boy says dismissively. All easy smiles once again. “Knights aren’t _girls_ , I think. But I think the Warrior could be a girl, even if we make it a boy in the statues. _And_  you’re a smith, in custom armor! I wanted to meet you, my lady. I’ve heard so much about you. Would you show me your armor? Do you have a coat of arms? Tell me about Pyke? You were stuck in the moat, with archers all around! How did you escape?”

Toni tilts her head to look at the sky. It’s been just over twenty-four hours since Pyke. How did word travel so fast?

The six-year-old watches her avidly. Toni sighs in resignation as she stands, scanning their supplies for maple wood. “I’ll tell you, but I have work to do as well, so don’t get in the way, alright?”

He nods his head vigorously, his ringlets of hair bouncing. Toni thinks this kid’s going to be unfairly handsome when he grows up. “Of course, my lady, I won’t be a bother!” he promises.

Toni tugs at her hair. “Right. Move away from the anvil, please? Good. Here.” Toni reaches into a cabinet and sets her helmet into the boy’s hands. That should keep him busy for a while, and he probably can’t break it.

“It’s so heavy!” He marvels. Toni smiles her herself as she takes out some tools. “Lady Toni!” The boy cries, his voice tinny and distorted. She looks back, and the boy has her helmet on, and he can’t reach the buckles to unlock it.  “I’m stuck!”

Jorgen shakes his head. It’s going to be a very long day.

(She figures out the boy’s name later when she thinks about the golden flowers embroidered on his green tunic, and Jorgen almost has a heart attack when she shares her suspicions.)

A few more people stop by the forge over the next two days, but none of them are children, so Toni and Jorgen are free to curse and throw things at them for loitering and ogling. Oh, Toni loves the attention—but not while there are still two dozen different orders to be filled. She takes her work very seriously. On the third day, they distribute shields to several clients, and Toni is incredibly grateful that she left the orders to Jorgen.

Not every knight had the money to pay for new shields and relied on winning jousts and fights in the tourney to repay any craftsman they ordered from. If the knight lost they would have to return the shield, but in the end, it’s the craftsman that has to deal with the monetary loss, and not all knights were noble enough to pay off their debts.

Jorgen, however, had an uncanny ability to pick out the winners. He allowed no less than five knights (two of which weren’t actually knighted yet) to purchase shields and set up payment plans, and all of them won at least two fights by the end of the fourth day. Toni looks over the parchment records, bewildered. They were already breaking even.

“I’ve got a good eye, and twenty years o’ workin’ with these soldier-types,” Jorgen grunts. “I know which souls t’ trust.”

Toni snorts. “Right, you looked into my soul and thought I’d be a good hire.”

“Aye,” the old smith leans back in his chair, smug as ever. “That, and you were persistent. I’m an old man, I’ve no time ta argue with ya, lass.”

* * *

It’s the fifth day of the tourney, dusk fast approaching. The sky is soft and rosy, and Toni sits with a few tiny swamp guys—crannogmen, from Greywater— and three enormous Karstark bannermen. They all get along like a house on fire, and Toni finds the contrast in her company hilarious.

She turns, laughing at a weird joke about frog-spearing, and makes the unfortunate mistake of recognizing Harwood Stout in the crowd. He’s gaunt and scruffy, with anger written into the crevices of his face. He stares, realization dawning on his face.

“Fuck,” Toni says sharply when she sees him pushing through the crowd.

The green-eyed crannogman beside her grows alert, following her gaze. “Who’s that? He looks angry.”

Toni pushes herself to her feet. “I see that.” She isn’t sure what happened to Stout in the aftermath of their fight, only that Ned Stark made him pay some extra taxes or grains for the assault. Toni assumed that the whole ordeal was over and done with. Talla was certainly ready to move on, having left for Dorne months ago.

Stout doesn’t look as though he’s here to bury the hatchet. In fact, he’s got his hand on the pommel of a sword.

She takes note of the three crannogmen with their nets wrapped around their shoulders, and the other Northerners with longsword tucked into their belts. And the dozens of empty wine jugs and pints scattered between them. The crowd, while not suffocatingly close, push and move in a dense blur of tipsy men and women. Harwood is only a few yards away. He has this smug look on his face, knowing she’s cornered here.

Right. No exits, too many civilians, and everyone's drunk. Not much for her to do if he attacks her right here and now. Stout rushes forward.

Toni seizes the metal platter beneath a roasted duck and swings it around, clouting him in the face.

Everyone stops for a heartbeat, so startled by the great  _clang_ of metal striking a skull. The events are beginning to catch up as Hardwood shakes off the blow and the Karstarks get to their feet.

Then, Toni _runs_.

 

* * *

Ned finds her after an hour of searching, tracking down that damnable smith all over again. The farther he walks, the sparser the crowd, until he is alone at the edge of Casterly Rock’s gardens, and all that lays before him are sea oats, rocky ledges, and twisted, windblown trees. There is a small path down to the water, squeezing between great boulders and the cavernous bedrock. A broken branch sways in the breeze, a piece of torn cloth tangled in it.

And at the end of the path, there is a small pocket of white sands before the water. Sitting at the edge of the sea is Toni, her feet bare and buried in the sand.  

Ned rubs his face, exhausted. “You truly do remind me of Lyanna, my lady,” he says quietly, coming to stand a few feet from her. She leans over her knees, resting on her elbows, but does not face him. Ned can see a rivulet of blood, drying down the side of her cheek. “Her and Brandon. I was always running after them. Trying to keep up, to keep them from harm. I could never save them from their own nature, though.”

“I don’t need anyone to save me,” Toni answers sullenly.

He sighs, sitting down beside her. “I thought you’d say that, too. And I must agree, you are quite capable. I think I owe you my life three times over, actually.”

The woman sighs irritably, putting her head down. “There is no debt here, my lord. I don’t expect anything, I don’t _want_  anything from you. I only did what made sense.”

“I know that,” Ned tells her softly. It seems like she’s only ever done things that are noble and good if you look past whatever chaos is in her wake. She attacked first, according to Howland Reed, but only to draw Stout away to the training grounds. A crannogman got a nasty cut on his leg, but Antonia and Harwood were the only two seriously injured.

“Then why are you here, Ned?” She turns to him with a storm in her eyes. There is little moonlight, but he can still make out the swelling of her cheek and the cut above her brow. Her neck would look like smooth marble if not for the jagged cut along one side, where Harwood Stout tried very hard to kill her.

Isn’t the answer obvious? “Because you’ve been hurt.” _And it pains me to see you like this_. He finds himself reaching out to her without meaning to, his fingers skimming the wound at her throat. “I can get a maester for you,” he suggests, hoping that this time, perhaps she’ll take his offer of aid.

Her eyes watch him steadily. “No.”

Ned exhales sharply. “Don’t be a fool.”

“I don’t need one.”

Irritation rises in his chest. Ned’s jaw clenches. “What sense is there in refusing help?”

“When it’s unwanted, unneeded, and probably ineffective,” is her crisp, infuriating reply. She does not meet his eyes. “I appreciate the offer, but I won’t see a maester.”

His frustration melts into confusion. He looks at her neck again;  the wound is shallow but ragged and bloody. “Did Maester Luwin offend you in some way?” He guesses, but he already doubts this is the case.

“Of course not,” Toni says quickly. “It’s just a waste of materials. I’m alright, my lord, trust me. I know when I need help, but this isn’t one of those times.”

Her eyes are bright and earnest now, and Ned isn’t sure what to think. “Then why did you come all the way out here? Stout is in custody, my lady, you had no reason to flee.”

He sees the uncertainty flicker across her features, sitting so close to her. Then her eyes grow haunted. “Did you hear what he was saying? About me, about Talla, about _you_?”

Ned frowns. He had only gotten to the grounds in time to see the very end of the quarrel, with Harwood crawling off a smashed bench and Toni bolting from the scene. A few of Karstark’s men-at-arms told him Stout was talking treasonous things—hunting down that tavern girl, flaying Toni, even poisoning Lord Stark, though no one is sure there's actual evidence of a plot—and Ned had not waited to hear the details past that. 

She turns her head away again. Ned still has his hand on her neck. He pulls on the sleeve of his tunic and uses it to wipe the blood from her skin.

“I think I would have killed him, had I stayed there,” Toni says finally. She leans away from him, scooping water into her hands to rub the blood off her face. “So I ran before I did something stupid. I’ve seen enough death this week.” She grows impossibly solemn for a moment, finally looking as tired and sorrowful as one must feel after battle.

Ned believes her. And he cannot find it in himself to blame her for her thoughts. Ned sighs. “I am sorry for how much suffering that man has caused you. But I also wish you would not put yourself in the way of danger so readily. You have no lust for battle, yet there you are, always ready for it.” Their shoulders press against each other. He’s not sure who is leaning on whom. “It torments me, that you are so good but so reckless.”

“I have to,” Toni whispers. “If I can fight, if I can do good, then it’s my responsibility to act. If I get hurt, it’s nothing I don’t expect.”

Her eyes speak of defiance and resolution and vulnerability and fear—and Ned thinks, with sudden and perfect conviction, that there is nothing about her he doesn’t like. From her mulish independence to her achingly compassionate heart, from her vehement opinions to her careful, thoughtful values.

He thinks that her strangeness—her boyish hair, her profession, her need to prove herself on a damn _battlefield_ —obscures an ocean’s worth of complexity. Ned has never been a particularly curious man, but this woman… Antonia… He wants to know her truth.

“Go back to the castle, Ned.” Toni’s deep brown eyes burn into his. He feels completely exposed before her; like she can hear his every thought, but it doesn't bother him. Her face is so close, he can feel her breath on his cheek.

He wants to stay. Here on the beach with her, Ned has never felt so content. He wants to hold her and kiss her and—

Ned leans back, breathing in the salty air as he stands. Toni brushes sand from her tunic and rises to her feet.

He holds her gaze for a moment. Ned fears his own words, he has never been so unsure of what to say. She says nothing more to him, but nods in farewell and walks away.

Once, a lifetime ago, Ned danced with Ashara Dayne at a tourney. He had been infatuated with the Dornish woman, from her slender curves to her mesmerizing, brilliant purple eyes. A beautiful, elegant woman, who was delighted to dance with him. Radiant, kind, and wonderfully funny. Ned was known as the quiet wolf of his family, but Ashara had made him laugh that night.

He did not think of Ashara often, especially after he wed Catelyn. His Tully bride was a good match, and Ned cares for her now. He likes Catelyn’s hair and her smile, and she’s been adjusting, slowly but surely, to her position as Lady of Winterfell. He is grateful for the children she has given him and humbled by her stalwart support since he became Warden of the North. But he cannot say that he loves Cat, only that he is fond of her. Lately, Ned has wondered how different his life would be if only his wife could accept Jon.

There is no good reason for him to be making these comparisons. Only the truth gnawing at his conscious, burrowing into his heart too quickly for him to stop it.

He dreams vividly that night.

Ned stands at the edge of the water, feeling the night breeze brush across his face. The morph into Antonia’s hands, callused and gentle, tipping his head so she can meet his eyes and tell him _look at me_. He thinks of the tanned column of her throat, with the gruesome cut she’s been left with, and he lays kisses up to her jaw to make sure she knows care instead of harm. She whispers _I don’t need anyone to save me_ as she drags him out of the moat, her neck still weeping blood.

He calls out to her in protest, in worry,  _Antonia!_ And she turns to him with a fierce look, a blonde girl tucked into her bosom. A black-haired boy curled into her arms. It’s snowing, so he puts a cloak over her shoulders. And then she is Cat, under the weirwood, with snowflakes in her auburn hair and his cloak over her shoulders.

Ned wakes up, feeling profoundly ashamed and lost.

The tourney goes on, and then it ends. He does not even remember who was crowned at the end of the final joust, or who won it. The Northern forces leave Casterly Rock, and Lord Stark does not see Antonia again for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're gonna have to leave Ned outta the story for the next bit! He's out! He's got like four babies to take care of, PLUS all of the damn North, he can't be pining over some hot warrior lady all day.  
> In other news:  
> -I know skimmed over it, but Harwood is sent to the Night's Watch after this for attempting to poison Ned. He never got anywhere with the plot, but they raided his belongings and yeah, the guy had poison.  
> -You can totally blame Maester Luwin for spreading Toni's story. No one expects it to be the maester, but it was him.  
> -I originally wanted Toni to meet Theon, but it was gonna be mean and bitter and messy, so instead, a little punk from the Reach snuck into her workshop to meet the greatest woman warrior ever.  
> -Teenage Tyrion? Teenage Tyrion. They'll meet again!


	9. Iron-Hearted

She leaves Casterly Rock with fire in her blood. Her heart can't tell if it's fury or desire, but she pushes Ned Stark to the recesses of her thoughts and focuses on what she’s familiar with.  _Fury._

Harwood Stout has wormed his way into her mind. Talla’s arms dotted with bruises. The whispered hopes of a girl, sneaking off to elope with her gallant lord. A rope of blonde hair fisted in that man’s palm as he dragged her back to a tavern ‘where she belonged.’

Let it go. He’s gone. _I miss Talla._

Toni hasn’t heard from the girl, but then again, she isn’t sure how Talla would even get a message to her. The girl can’t write, and no maester would agree to send a raven between a smith and a tavern girl on other sides of the continent. _She’s the same age as Peter Parker, but she looks so much older._  Toni hadn’t understood the meaning of the phrase ‘world-weary’ until she met Talla. Still, she is only sixteen, and Toni hopes the world hasn’t worn her down too much.

What Toni really hopes, though, is that no one else has to go through the shit show that Talla _and_  Toni went through.

She trudges along a sandy road beside hundreds of men. A city appears on the horizon, glittering in the evening light. Glittering, and burning. It’s the port city they’ll be sailing from, newly freed from Greyjoy control.

“It’s still on fire,” Toni says, dumbfounded.

“Ah, no worries,” someone answers. “Lannisters will fix her up, they’ve got the gold for it. Greyjoys picked a good target. Maybe this’ll take those golden fucks down a peg. I still say the Kingslayer shoulda gone to the Wall, you know, and his father’s no better…”

Toni tunes out the rest, her eyes glued to the city. As they get closer, the more devastated it looks. Most of the buildings are only smoldering now, and clean up has started. Bodies pile up in the street to be wheeled away from the living. Everything smells of rot, decay, and stinking sea water.

The actual damage is minuscule in comparison to the invasion of Manhattan. But Manhattan had relief efforts. Manhattan had the Maria Stark Foundation, and once the paperwork was in order, they had the Department of Damage Control as well. Her world also has hospitals and antibiotics and property damage insurance. Her world has shelters for women and children; homes for the elderly; evacuation procedures and humanitarian aid.

A flash of movement catches her eye. A kid dashes past two red-armored soldiers on break. They don’t notice her stealing their bread. Up ahead, plumes of smoke pour out of a brothel. You can tell it’s a brothel by the women running out of the building, poorly dressed but dutifully carrying out fine silks, platters, and the occasional child.

Toni doesn’t even realize she’s broken off from her group of Northern soldiers. Two blocks in, a residential building sways precariously, with a great gaping hole in the middle. A cracked boulder lays in the foundations, having made its way past the stone walls lining the port. There are no gas lines or pipelines to worry about, only the damage that could be done to the surrounding buildings if this one tips sideways.

“It’s going to fall!” a man calls to his wife. Mostly men stand around the building, so smallfolk, some Lannister guards, trying to assess the crumbling edifice. Toni watches too.

_The back pillar…_

“Collins?” Derrick shows up at her side, followed by a young man she doesn’t recognize and an older man she definitely recognizes.

“What are you doing out here, my lady? This is dangerous.” A wrinkle forms in Jorah Mormont’s brow. He looks as though he wants to say something else, but holds his tongue.

“Nice of you all to show up.” She nods to him, pulling off her outer tunic. “I hear you got knighted _and_  betrothed, Mormont. I wish you two the best.” Toni doesn’t believe in ‘winning’ a woman’s hand in marriage, but it might be worth having a friend like Mormont.

“Thank you.” Mormont seems taken aback. “Lady Collins, is it? What are you doing out here?”

 _I don’t know._  She pushes her hair back, out of her eyes. “Just call me Toni, please.” She spares him a half-smile, remembering how Thor started to call her a shield-sister after they fought by each other’s side. Jorah’s gaze holds the same respect for her that Thor once felt. “Say, do you mind helping me with this?”

“With what?” Derrick queries, eyeing her bare arms appreciatively. “Gods be good,” he mumbles, “I’ll help if you keep taking off your clothes.”

Toni ignores him (and Jorah gives him a good cuff on the ear), and points to the building. “This.” She turns to the nearest peasant man. “Get us some hammers.”

With a few calculated strikes to its support pillars, the building crumbles straight down. The boulder is broken up by the debris, making it a little easier to clear out. Eventually, Toni makes her way to the docks, where the soldiers and craftsmen are lined up for ships home. She doesn’t plan on staying there long.

* * *

“Where will you go?” Thoros asks her, passing back his flask. Toni still thinks his rum is sweeter than it should be. They sit on a stone wall at the edge of the docks, swinging their feet above the tides.

“I’m staying here first. Lannisport was hit the hardest by reavers.” They were smart to burn the Lannister fleet so quickly. They were cruel to pillage the port city and torture its citizens. “Then Seagard, if they still need help rebuilding.”

The priest is silent, searching her face. “What exactly do you plan on accomplishing here, girlie?”

Toni rubs the mark on her neck. It’s healing well. “I just want to help.”

“You helped as a soldier. You helped as a smithy.”

It’s not enough. Her voice feels small when she speaks. “I can do so much more here, Thoros.”

“I believe it…” He squeezes her shoulder. After a moment of heavy silence, he continues. “I saw you in the flames, you know. First thing I’ve seen in a long, long time.” His voice is low and eerily sober, lacking his usual jovial tone. “War makes monsters of us all, but you? For you, I see something rising out of smoke and sand. War made you something more.”

Toni arches an eyebrow. Smoke and sand… _Afghanistan?_ … but he must be talking about the beaches on the Iron Islands. Still, she wonders.

“You called me something, just before we reached Pyke. What did you mean, when you said…?”

“Iron-hearted?” Thoros prompts her with a half-smile. “I thought that was what He meant, but perhaps it was something else. Perhaps, He truly meant  _Iron Man._ ” He strokes his beard thoughtfully, peering down to see her reaction.

Her breath catches in her throat. _No_. “Thoros… who told you that name?”

But the Myrish man only shrugs. “Can’t say it was ever _told_ t’me, my friend. It is simply known.” He pats her shoulder once more and takes a sip from his flask. The otherworldly mood is abruptly lifted.  “Thank you for the sword, by the way.” He pulls it halfway out of the scabbard at his belt. “I always ruin the blade, though, and I fear your good work is wasted on me.”

Toni grins. “It should hold up a while longer than most. If it does worse than Tobho Mott’s, come find me.”

Thoros squints at the blade and then pulls out the sword to examine it in the light. Toni smirks. “Hang on, hang on… The blade is _red_. How’d I miss that? How’d you do that?” He asks, delighted.

The smith in her puffs with pride. She’s been listening to Thoros’s complaints about the Qohorik smith for a while. “Tell Master Mott he might be the best smith in King’s Landing, but _I’m_  the best in the world.”

Thoros barks in laughter as they stand. “Oh, he’ll turn as red as my robes when he sees this!” He cackled all the way to the boats.

* * *

“You’re an idiot, Toni.”

“Yeah,” she answers vacantly, sorting through her belongings. She’s not going to start up a smithy in Lannisport, but she’ll need to keep some supplies with her.

“What about the shop? What about Percy, and your friends at home?” Jorge presses and Toni pauses, but not because she’s reconsidering.

“Who the hell is Percy?”

The old smith blinks, flushing with color. “ _Pill_ , of course! What about everyone back in Torrhen’s Square?” He demands, his voice rising with anger.

“I’ll be back,” Toni insists. “You can’t guilt me out of this,” she adds primly.

Jorgen huffs, crossing the room to retrieve something. He stomps back to her side and drops a sack of coins in her bag.

Toni jerks back and rolls her eyes. “I’m not taking your shares, you old goat.”

“Yeah, you are. You won’t be makin’ much money doin’ charity work.” Jorgen glares. “You’re an _idiot_ , lass.”

“You said that already.” Toni reaches into a wooden chest. “And it’s not charity. It’s—” _Atonement?_ “It’s balance. Ordinary people are dying in the streets, and someone needs to speak for their needs while these cities are rebuilt.”

“They have people for that. They’re called lords.”

“What happens to the brothel workers that aren’t protected under any lord’s jurisdiction? Who’s in charge of the orphans that this war has made? Who sees that their needs are met, that they can learn a trade and eventually provide for themselves—”

“Alright, alright,” he cuts her off. “Clearly you’ve given this shit a lot of thought. Don’t know when you find the time to worry about so many fucking people.”

She doesn’t answer for a while. Toni has often been told she stretches herself too thin, trying to do everything at once. That she has no patience, that she hoards the spotlight and leaves nothing for anyone else. The same people also used to call her a heartless bitch, the _merchant of death_ , because she refused to accept any blame. She looks down at the wooden trunk before her, where she’s stashed her armor. This is the better option.

“It’s easier not to,” Toni admits softly. “It’d be the easiest thing in the world for all those noble lords to just forget about the common people. They’re powerful enough to get away with no accountability for a long time. But sooner or later, there are consequences.”

She sets the contents of the trunk in front of Jorgen.

The old smith stares. The helmet stares back menacingly. “No.”

“It’ll help you get business—”

“I told you b’fore, you brainless wench, I won’t take credit for your work!” Jorgen snaps, slamming his hand on the table. Toni rolls her eyes, and Jorgen snatches her arm. She goes rigid under his grip. “Is this what you do, lass? Is this why I’ve never heard o’ you before?”

Toni twists away, and he releases her. “What do you mean?”

“You won’t put down roots. You just sweep into people’s lives and then—then you just flit away like a bird, like it don’t matter what’s left in your wake.” Jorgen’s face screws up in distress. “Pickin’ fights like yeh don’t care if you die. Stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong. Why’d you make that fancy sword for the priest, eh? What’s in it for you?” Jorgen demands abruptly.

“Nothing,” Toni exclaims, annoyed. “He paid for it.”

“You sold it for next to nothing,” accuses Jorgen.

“He’s my friend, and I can afford to give my friends a break.”

“You say that, but I ain’t buyin’ what your selling, not even for a discount. You might as well be doin’ all this shit for free!” Jorgen explodes.

“I don’t work for free,” Toni argues, but it feels as though she’s had this conversation a thousand times before. “I’m not an idiot, I didn’t spend what I didn’t have—”

“That’s not the point, lass,” growls Jorgen. He taps the helmet. “It’s not just the work, it’s your _time_ , it’s your _life_  you’re giving. Fightin’ with soldiers wasn’t enough for you though, now you’ve got to find more people to fight for, since you already saved Talla—not to mention Ned _fucking_  Stark, Gods know how many times—”

Toni scowls, tying up her bag. “I’m not staying here to fight anyone. I’m doing the opposite. I’ve seen cities ruined like this before, and as soon as the battle’s over, no one cares except to complain about the repair costs.” She can handle this. “There are people here that need help, and I’m not going to turn my back on them.” Toni doesn’t look up.

“You’re an idiot,” Jorgen says again. And then he’s pulling her into a crushing bear hug. “An absolute _idiot_ , Toni. Good luck saving the whole fuckin’ continent.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Toni teases him, but her voice trembles. “I’ll save the whole _world_  one of these days.” She squeezes him back and then lets him go.

He scowls down at her with worried blue eyes. Toni has no idea how old Jorgen is, but the lines on his face look deeper than when they first met. _How long have I been here?_  Toni isn’t entirely sure anymore, and the thought frightens her. “Have I ever told you my full name, Jorgen?”

The older man raises an eyebrow at the non-sequitur. “Toni is short for Antonia. You wept and told me over couple pints a while back.”

“Wha—first of all, I wasn’t crying—”

“Yes, you were.” _When did he get so snarky?_  She wonders fondly.

“Second of all,” Toni says loudly, “That’s not what I meant. I meant my _full_  name. I haven’t told anyone, ‘cause. Well, I haven’t. But you’re my best friend here, Jorgen, and also my only friend,” he snorts at that, “So I just. Wanted to say it. Just so someone out here knows.”

“You’re not actually plannin’ on dyin’ out here, are you?” The smith peers at her suspiciously. “In this shithole? It’s too fuckin’ muggy to spend yor last breaths in Lannisport, I hope you know that.”

Toni forces herself to smile. “No, Jorgen. No.” He says nothing, waiting for her to stop stalling.

“Natasha Antonia Stark.” The smith leans away, looking at her for a long time. “I’m—I’m from Manhattan.”

“Manhattan...Where’s that?” asks Jorgen.

Toni isn’t sure if the gnawing in her throat is a laugh or a sob. “Very far from here. A city on an island. It’s—practically another world.”

Jorgen frowns. “So, you’re sayin’ you’re not related to House Stark.”

“Not in the slightest,” she agrees fervently. “But that’s all that people know here, so I can’t use my name for anything, even if I’m just as—I don’t mind it, the Starks are good and well-loved, so I wouldn’t want to cause any sort of confusion anyway.” Toni chews her lip, already regretting this. There’s no need for it, it probably sounds like a lie—

“Lady Antonia Stark,” Jorgen says suddenly. “Hm. No offense to Lady Catelyn, but it _does_  suit you, I s’pose.”

Something presses into her very soul, weighing her down and lifting her up at the same time. “Yeah, but don’t go spreading that around,” Toni says weakly. “I don’t think Lord Stark would appreciate it very much.”

Jorgen observes her critically. “Ned Stark…” He says nothing for a moment. “That name ain’t the only reason you’re so keen on him.”

Toni frowns. “What?”

The old smith grunts vaguely. “You get this _look_  about you when he’s discussed. Never thought I'd need to mention it ‘fore now.” He scoops up the helmet carefully. “Don’t care too much what it means, but it’s there.”

“There’s no look,” Toni denies instantly. “This is just my face. I don’t know what you mean. Why are we talking about this?”

He gives a long-suffering sigh. “You’re a piece o’ work, lass. You give everyone this much hell for pointin’ out the obvious, or am I just that special?”

“Shut up,” Toni answers stubbornly. She’s not going to talk about it. She’s not ready to. “I just like him, he’s a good man and a good leader.”  _God damn it, Toni_. “ I admire him. I respect him.”

“You love him.”

“Love is for children,” Toni replies staunchly. “Ned is a friend. Like _Thoros_. We’re not—he’s not—”  
  
“He’s married.”

“Yes, Jorgen, I fucking _know_  that.” Her hands are shaking, so she balls them into fists. “He’s got three kids, and he’s also, if you didn’t know, Warden of the _fucking_  North, on top of being Lord of Winterfell, and I’m not even _from here_ , so whatever you’re thinking is irrelevant because there’s no _look_  and there’s no _way_  and there’s—nothing. It’s nothing.”

The smith only gives her a plain, unimpressed look.

“Shut up, Jorgen.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I don’t like him,” Toni adds.

But the lie seems to linger in the air, souring it. Finally, Jorgen drops the issue. “Be safe, Tones. Come back soon.”

“I’ll be home as soon as I can,” she promises, and her chest feels heavy with dread and hope.

* * *

* * *

* * *

Two boys listen avidly as an elderly man speaks. They’re huddled together by the fire in the maester’s tower, drinking in every word about the Greyjoy Rebellion.

“So, Theon _is_  a hostage here?” One of the boys finally interrupts Maester Luwin’s retelling, his mind drifting to the sullen boy that Lord Stark returned with. “He’s Lord Greyjoy’s last heir, I mean?”

The maester shakes his head. “Theon is now a ward of Winterfell. And he is not the last heir of Balon, only his last son. His elder sister still lives on the Iron Islands with their father.”

Robb leans forward. “Can you tell us more about Father? Was he brave in Pyke? I’m sure he was. He showed us the scar on his belly, how did he get that? How many stitches was it?”

Luwin holds up his hands. “One question at a time,” he chides the boy.

The heir to Winterfell grows solemn. “Was Father injured very badly? His scar is so big.”

The maester taps his chin thoughtfully. “Your Lord Father is a man of few words. He refused to tell me much about his injury. Perhaps, you would like to hear the account of the soldier that fought at his side?” He shuffles through his parchments, eyes gleaming with some unknown knowledge. “She was quite talkative in her report, and described Lord Stark’s exploits in great detail,” the maester says casually.

As expected, the two boys gasp in disbelief. “ _She?_ ” Jon asks first. “Father fought beside a _girl?_  Is she okay?” He thinks of Danny Flint, the poor girl who tried to join the Night’s Watch. He hates that tale.

“She is well, last I saw,” the maester assures him.

“Was _she_  brave?” Robb pipes up. “Is she a Dornish warrior, like Queen Nymeria?”

Luwin chuckles warmly, unrolling a heavily used parchment. “Her name is Antonia, and she hails from Torrhen’s Square. She is a skilled metalsmith, and snuck into the army after creating her own armor. A few Northern soldiers helped her hide, and she stood on the front lines with a Myrish priest when they reached Pyke…”

Later that night, Robb sneaks into his half-brother’s room. It’s much easier now, with his lady mother so exhausted from tending to her youngest babe, and all the guards hovering around his parents’ chambers rather than his own. Jon is waiting for him, and throws his blankets aside as soon as Robb whispers his name.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Jon says automatically, but he can only feign his disapproval for so long. “What did father say about Lady Toni?”

Robb shakes his head as he nestles into the bed. “I didn’t get to ask him. But I asked Jory, you won’t believe what he said!” His Tully blue eyes are wide with urgency. “Jory says he knew Antonia _before_  the rebellion. She looks a bit like Aunt Lyanna, but cuts her hair very short, and she fights _all the time_.”

Jon’s brow furrows, trying to imagine the warrior woman. “Like Aunt Lyanna?” Father doesn’t speak of his sister very much. Jon has only seen her statue in the crypts, and knows that she shared the same Stark features—dark hair, grey eyes, a long face—as Eddard and his brothers.

“Like you,” Robb says casually. “She’s got dark hair and stuff, not like mine. Oh, and Jory says he and Father saved her from a bad man in Barrowton who was hurting her and this bas—some other girl.” Robb frowns, knowing Jon could tell what he had been about to say. “Sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t be,” Jon says quietly. He should get used to it. “You said Jory’s known of her for a long time?”

“Since before the rebellion,” Robb confirms.

Jon frowns. “Why haven’t we heard about her? Jory tells us all sorts of stories, but not about the girl soldier that makes her own armor?” It seems like quite the oversight to the six-year-old. He thinks even Sansa or little Arya would enjoy a story about this lady warrior. 

“Wait,” Robb gasps. “Maybe Jory meant _King Robert’s_ rebellion?”

The dark-haired boy frowns more deeply, looking as sour as Old Nan. “Robb, that makes even _less_  sense.”

“Not if he’s not _supposed_  to talk about her,” says Robb, looking pensive. “Jory said she was very pretty, you know.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Jon demands, though he is, in part, delighted that the heroine he has been imagining _is_  a pretty one.

His half-brother leans in close. “I think Jory likes her. And he said something funny about Father. Like _‘I wasn’t the only one impressed by her, Lord Stark was curious too’_ —before Ser Rodrik came by, and Jory chased me off.” Robb recites carefully. “So maybe he’s not supposed to say anything because it—might upset Mum.”

It hits Jon like lightning. He sucks in a breath of air and holds it for a moment, trying to quell the rising hope in his chest. “You think Lady Antonia could be my mother?” Jon whispers. “Truly?”

“Maybe,” Robb says eagerly. “Maybe that’s everyone thinks you look so much like father, because Lady Toni looks similar.”

“And she’s a soldier,” Jon adds slowly. “So maybe they didn’t meet at a tourney or—or a tavern like everyone thinks, but on the _battlefield_.” He cannot help but conjure up the scene in his head. Perhaps his parents fought the Mad King together and fell in love, like one of the tragic stories that bards sing.

“I bet he loves her,” Robb says softly. He seems to be thinking along the same lines as Jon. “I think Father must’ve fallen in love with her. And they couldn’t be together, because Uncle Brandon died and he was promised to Mother.” They had recently discovered this, after overhearing some kitchen workers discuss Lady Catelyn’s previous betrothal. If not for the Mad King, Brandon Stark would still be alive, and maybe Jon and Robb would be cousins rather than half-brothers.

The auburn-haired boy grows uncommonly solemn. Of the two of them, he is always the more lively child. Jon looks at him in concern. “Robb… Whatever happened between Father and my mother, he’s married to Lady Catelyn now, and he cares about his family.”

“I know that,” Robb huffs. “Father loves us, obviously, and Sansa and the baby too, but sometimes I think—I think he and Mother don’t get along.”

Jon knows this. The Lady of Winterfell is sometimes colder to her husband than she is to Jon. “Well—that’s not the same as hating her,” he tries to reason. As much as Jon hopes that Father loved Jon’s mother, whoever she was, he does not wish that Robb’s mother is unhappy here. “And Lady Catelyn is very reserved. She doesn’t _hate_  Father or anything.”

“No, but she certainly hates _you_ ,” Robb replies sadly. “I’m sorry she’s so mean to you Jon, you’re my brother.” He says this firmly, and sets his head against Jon’s shoulder.

Jon says nothing, but huddles into his brother’s side as well. Just yesterday, Lady Catelyn had scolded him for playing with the new baby. He had only done the same as Robb, pulling funny faces to see Sansa giggle, but Lady Catelyn did not want him anywhere near her. “Do you really think Lady Toni could be… her?” He asks at last.

Robb’s eyes gleam with purpose. “Maybe. But there’s only one way to be certain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to save that last section for a later chapter, but I couldn't resist... Anyways, to recap:  
> \- Toni is staying in Lannisport for an indeterminate period of time.  
> \- Thoros is going to lord over Tobho Mott for weeks about his fancy sword.  
> \- Jorgen is back in Torhhen's Square. He kept Toni's helmet, but he'll never sell it or leave it out to attract customers.  
> \- Luwin is causing a lot more disturbances than he means to.  
> \- And, Jon and Robb are six-ish but don't ask me about the ages, I'm not good at keeping track.
> 
> Questions and comments and critiques are welcome! If you have suggestions for where this story should go, I'd love to hear them too!


	10. Lannisport

 Toni goes to the eastern district. It’s the poorest section of Lannisport, and it still smells like death weeks after the fight is over. She has some money, but it’ll run out soon if she doesn’t find work or a cheap place to eat and sleep.

So, she sleeps alongside half a dozen girls sharing a room and doesn’t eat well for a while. The girls are mostly brothel workers and marvel at her pretty face and queer hair. In the morning, Toni helps a woman named Leta sell treats on the docks. The two of them are pretty and young and don’t have trouble attracting customers. Leta works for her husband’s brother, a fisherman, but lives in the shared apartments with Toni because her home was wrecked in the siege.

Through Leta, Toni meets the few fishermen left in Lannisport. They were out at sea during the siege and were lucky enough to avoid the raids. The lobster fishermen take a liking to her. She and the other girls attract customers, so they pay her in shellfish to keep her business near theirs. Something about lobster meat and male potency (She always thought oysters were associated with aphrodisiacs?). Toni doesn’t need _those_ sort of customers, but many of the girls have more than one mouth to feed and need the extra coin.

* * *

A pox spreads in Lannisport. At the edge of the city, a sea of tents houses dozens of people. The sick are handled by Silent Sisters, who are sort of nuns, but they’re outmatched twenty to one. Toni keeps her mouth covered and grabs a clean apron from the laundry. She won’t pass as a sister, but any volunteers are welcome.

Sometimes, Toni wishes she could help like this in Manhattan. But she doesn’t have the time, and most places won’t let her. The reporters cause too much disruption. People dismiss her work as publicity stunts. Here, it might be more difficult to get people to cooperate with her, but she’s never been criticized for what she chooses to do.

The quietest section is where the elderly patients lie. A few of them might be highborn, as it’s rare to see smallfolk live past fifty, but here they all look the same. Each one wears rough-spun, undyed tunics, and Toni helps change their garments. She doesn’t get stuck with chamberpot duty—and to be honest, Toni isn’t sure she has the constitution of Tyrion Lannister to deal with shits and sewage every day—but in the evening, she sits with the older patients and keeps them active and fed.

* * *

Though she wants to do more work with the Silent Sisters, selling treats on the docks, near the fishermen, keeps Toni afloat. The other women she lives with—Frenna, Enya, Hollys—work as prostitutes, and return each day with bruises and better meals for their kids.

“Didn’t they begin giving out rations?” Toni asks Enya, watching three men unload nets from a dingy boat. Today is Enya’s day off, and Toni’s making a paste from cicely to disinfect the cuts over her cheek. “I saw shipments on the western docks, from Feastfires and Crakehall. Food, medicine, more masons to construct more buildings.”

Enya gives her a puzzled look. “Those aren’t for us, silly.” She shakes her head. “We’d never get any help from those folk. Lord Tywin hates brothels. That’s why there aren’t any in Casterly Rock. When he became the lord, he went through and tore them all down.”

“But that’s Casterly Rock,” Toni argues, though there’s a sinking feeling in her gut. “Who’s the Lord of Lannisport?”

Enya’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, Tonya, haven’t you heard it? There is no lord right now, he died during the siege without no heirs.”

Toni’s shocked. Crakehall, Feastfires, they’re so close, and they can certainly afford to send supplies to the eastern side of Lannisport, but they’ll only do it by a local lord’s decree, or through a private contract between local businesses. Since Toni’s not a merchant, she needs a lord’s order to get medicine and food to the east district.

The only one with the proper authority is the lord of Lannisport. But since he’s gone, the city falls under the general umbrella-authority of Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West.

* * *

“How’s the fever, Grumpy?” Toni asks, replacing a rag with a cooler one. The old man before her has a scowl permanently etched on his face, and he grumbles his every response.

“No fever,” he tries to wave off her hand, but can’t lift his arm high enough. “Get off me, yeh rat bastard. Let me die in peace, that’s what I’m here for.”

Grumpy is her favorite. He’s clever when he’s not in a mood. “You might not die,” Toni points out, and his dull green eyes flit away. “Drink the tonic, drink more water. You look tough enough to live through this.” She isn’t entirely sure about that, but he’s not that old, and the only reason this wing isn’t getting all the proper supplies is that there aren’t enough medics to care for them all.

He drinks everything with great reluctance, but when he scowls afterward, his eyes look sharper and more alert. “Got lice?” He asks gruffly. “You’d better not spread it, I’ve enough shit to deal with.”

Toni stares. “What? Lice?” Then she remembers her hair. “Ha, no, I’m fine.”

From the bed behind her she hears Sleepy ask, “So why did you cut off your hair, sweetling?”

She turns in her chair. “I’m a soldier. Longer hair would get caught in my armor.”

A deflection. Toni doesn’t expect them to believe her. But now, instead of her hair, they’ll ask…

“A _soldier_? You? Don’t talk such nonsense, girl!” Grumpy exclaims, but his emerald eyes are on her. She stares right back, impassive. He’s already seen her working with patients, carrying supplies and big jugs of water. He looks at her hands, worn and callused, and the way her clothes fit tightly over her toned shoulders.

“I fought at Pyke. Stormed the gates with the Northern bannermen. I never saw Balon, but I was in the outer corridor of Grey Tower when Ned Stark got that asshole to yield,” Toni continues casually, filling a cup of water for Sleepy. “Drink this, would you? Then I’ll let you rest.”

Sleepy, a doe-eyed old man with soft brown hair, nods reluctantly and takes the glass. “Oh, fine. But I wish you’d bring us wine, it’d help me sleep better.”

“When you can stand on your own, I’ll buy you enough wine to knock you over again,” Toni replies with a grin. “I think we’ll all need that once this outbreak is contained, Sleepy.”

Grumpy harrumphs, his greyish hair raising up like a mane of fur. “What’re you callin’ us that for?” he demands, his voice rattling. “I’ve got a name, you know. If you knew it, maybe you wouldn’t act so high and mighty, wench.”

Toni knows his name is something like Tiger or Tim, but she’s met so many people over the past few weeks, she doesn’t want to know every one of their names. _Especially if they die_.

Besides, there’s seven of them in this particular tent. They practically named themselves. Doc, a frumpy woman in the corner cot, is the worst to deal with. She mistrusts everything Toni says and insists on getting leeches to cleanse her blood.

But Toni can’t explain the Seven Dwarves to anyone here. She can only shrug, and feign indifference. “I just think it suits you, Grumps.”

* * *

She makes the trek to Casterly Rock anyway. Everyone tells her it’s folly, that she’ll only get herself thrown into a cell, and yes, Toni is aware this could end terribly if she makes a wrong move.

But damn it all, she needs Tywin Lannister to say it to her face. She doesn’t believe anyone can be so stubborn, so selfish and short-sighted, to just ignore a quarter of the population because they’re poor and dirty and ungodly.

The last one’s a lie. Toni’s seen how religious smallfolk are. Prostitutes and thieves and drunk men, they’re the ones that flock to the Seven for guidance and absolution.

Toni stands in line to speak with Lord Tywin, alongside dozens and dozens of other peasants, each with their own complaints and pleas and woes. She wears a dress today, but nothing can be done for her pixie-cut hair or glaringly obvious Northern-like features.

The Rock looks far more intimidating now that she’s sober. The Lion’s Mouth, a great gaping archway that marks the entrance to the city, seems more and more like a giant maw the closer she gets. It’s one of the largest structures she’s seen in Westeros so far, and it’s achingly similar to her own tower, her own great big ugly edifice right smack in the middle of Manhattan. She loves it, despite how much she’s beginning to hate Tywin Lannister.

Soldiers all around her strut about in gold and red armor. There’s one man, with the most extraordinarily-detailed pauldrons, polished and shining and encrusted with—what the fuck, those are actual rubies.

It’s been a while since she’s been so thoroughly outclassed.

Before she knows it, she’s standing ten feet away from the Lord of Casterly Rock. Worse, he’s at a long desk, advisors at one side and the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms at his left. Toni knew some of the royal family was still visiting the Rock, but for fuck’s sake. She looks gorgeous. A literal queen. _Didn't she just have a kid? How is she so thin?_

Toni kneels, dipping her head (because it’s what the guy who went before her did). “My lord.” She nods to Cersei Baratheon as well, though the queen looks bored out of her mind in her seat. “Your Grace.”

“Yes, get on with it,” Tywin says plainly, clearly paying more attention to the papers on his desk. Another intimidation tactic, a power play she would use all the damn time back home. It chafes at Toni, how similar she is to this asshat. “What is your concern?”

“I live in Lannisport. Much is being rebuilt, but there is no food and no supplies being sent to anyone I live alongside.”

“Rations are being delivered daily by the good men of Feastfires and Crakehall,” Lannister replies. “I should know, as I’m the one ordering them to.”

“We have seen none of it,” Toni answers sharply. She hates kneeling like this more than she expected to. “And my neighbors, my _friends_ , are the ones suffering.”

“Is that right?” Lannister asks though it’s clear he’s not looking for an answer. “Well, I can only send so much to support the city. Perhaps your friends are having trouble rationing correctly, or misuse my aid?” He turns to look at her then, and she sees nothing but mockery. She knows he’s skirting the issue.

“Why have none of the shipments reached Lavender Street?” Toni asks instead. Lavender Street is the name of one road, but she means the entire district. There isn't an official name for the area, the word 'Lavender' is just associated with the seediest part of town. 

Lannister pauses and then scoffs. “I think you’ve answered your own question.” His eyes narrow, looking up and down her form. “Don’t tell me you’re one of _them_. I could have you thrown in a cell for coming here. I don't need whores dirtying my floors.”

“I’m not,” Toni says calmly. She would say the word ‘whore’ just to watch him squirm for a moment, but Toni doesn’t think she’ll do much good from a jail cell. “I'm a merchant, I work with fishermen. But I live in the area. I heard Lord Tywin had become the Shield of Lannisport, and I wondered if that meant anything.” She has her answer. “Thank you for your time, my lord.”

She stands and begins to turn away.

“You have not been dismissed yet, girl,” the queen hisses, and Toni frowns at her. “We should cut out your tongue for this. How dare you insult your lord _and_  your queen?”

Tywin holds up his hand, and Cersei pauses, eyes still burning. “That seems unnecessary, sweet daughter,” he says firmly, and the queen is silent. Toni arches an eyebrow at the exchange, intrigued despite herself. Tyrion didn’t tell her much about his sister.

Lord Lannister leans forward in his seat, getting a better look at her. “You have awful manners, woman.”

Toni gives him a proper curtsy. “I would have to agree with you there,” she admits frankly.

He looks more perplexed than annoyed with her. “But you are not low-born,” he notes. “Dress however you like, you cannot hide your… refinement.” His brow scrunches together in deep thought. “What is your name?”

Toni frowns. She doesn’t need more weird rumors about her part in Pyke, but she’s also really very terrible at keeping secret identities. She can’t even think of a fake name. A fake surname? Shit.

“To—Taaahhh—anya. It’s Tanya, m’lord.”

She screams internally for the next few seconds and does not listen to a word Tywin says.

“... And you would do well to keep your tongue in check, Tanya. If I were any less forgiving, I would have cut out your tongue by now.” He peers at her over his desk sternly and then returns to fussing with his papers. “That is all. You’re dismissed.”

Toni leaves, annoyed with herself and still furious with Tywin.

* * *

“Don’t you worry about us, m’lady,” Frenna says, seated on a rock by the edge of a stream. Frenna’s so good with the kids, she makes coin from looking after the other workers’ children as well as her own. “We’ll manage good from here on. You’re too kind.” The two of them are washing about fourteen sets of clothing while the kids are playing in the water. Toni hates all the scrubbing she’s done since landing in Westeros, but in Lannisport the water’s much warmer, and this way, there’s a better chance that all fourteen of these kids will live into adulthood.

“It’s not being kind,” Toni says, patiently scrubbing her own share of the clothes. “I’m only telling you what I know. It’s impossible to keep up with so many children, but wash what you can, whenever you can.”

She doesn’t say it aloud, but the implication is clear. Less sickness, fewer deaths. There’s not a single elderly person in the east district. Here, it’s a blessing to live to forty. Tywin Lannister truly thinks he can fix his city by cutting off the eastern district, letting it die like a diseased limb… But he doesn’t know how diseases work, or people.

Three naked girls squeal and jump about, splashing Toni right in the face. Frenna gasps and hollers threats at them as they flee.

“Oh, Tonya, forgive ‘em,” Frenna sighs, shaking her head. “They don’ really get all that you’ve been doin’ here, or they’d be much more respecting.”

“Uh,” Toni hedges, swiping the water out of her eyes sourly, “Yeah, it’s fine. They’re good girls, I guess.”

The young woman tilts her head. “You don’t like babes?”

Seeing all these kids, jumping from one slippery rock to another, it just gives her anxiety. She can deal with a lot of responsibilities, but to be responsible for actual helpless human beings? No. She’ll make sure these kids are safe and healthy, as long as she’s a safe distance from them.

“I wouldn’t call it dislike, just… deep mistrust. They’re very unpredictable.” Like Loras Tyrell, who nearly cleaved himself in two when he tried picking up an axe. Or, worse, Peter Parker, who almost died half a dozen times in the few months she knew him.

Frenna giggles. “Oh, that’s funny,” she smiles, and Toni laughs too before anyone realizes she’s absolutely serious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short because I wrote way too much and I needed to break it up into a slightly more coherent format...
> 
> I have PLANS for Toni. TOO MANY PLANS. I have yet to decide if there's going to be more Avenger/Marvel-ness in this story, too. Should it just be all Game of Thrones? Should I pander to the masses and throw Loki into the mix?? Everyone likes Loki. I like Loki. Maybe he's related to the white walkers.
> 
> It's a little unclear where in the MCU this takes place (post Civil War? Post Thanos? fuck if I know), so really, this can still go anywhere. I'll be happy writing whatever, but I kinda want to hear your opinions on this, if you have any?


	11. Pipe Dreams

“My lord,” Ser Rodrik nods his head respectfully as Ned leans against the railing beside him.

“Ser,” Ned says breathlessly, wiping sweat from his brow. “Your nephew has improved greatly,” he confesses, looking back across the training yard. Jory Cassel is overseeing the training of younger guardsmen, still smiling after his bout with Lord Stark.

“Don’t give him more credit than is due,” Rodrik shakes his head, looking at Ned with disapproval. “It’s only been a few weeks, and you keep irritating that cut.”

“Not on purpose,” Ned answers mulishly, though the wound over his belly still limits him at times. “I didn’t think the boys would be so lively.” Robb and Jon had been ecstatic with his return, and one of them may have kneed him in the gut trying to hug him.

“And the little lady Sansa? Was she too lively as well?” Rodrik arched an eyebrow at him.

He also may have lifted Sansa too high the other day and irritated the scab again. But he dismisses the thought. “I cannot let myself grow complacent. If we hear about those bandits again, I’m going to take a group out to search for them myself.”

Rodrik huffs in annoyance. “Lord Manderly has always been quick to complain. He should send out his own riders to meet them.”

“They are not only a threat to White Harbor,” Ned reminds him calmly. “The last reports had them moving west, harassing travelers on the Kingsroad. Where do you suppose they’ll show up next?”

“Hm,” Rodrik taps his chin thoughtfully. “Barrowtown, I’d reckon. From there, either they’ll get smart and head south, or they’ll go north to Torrhen's Square.”

“Aye, and it won’t only be the lords complaining of bandits. There are farmers and traders at those ports, vulnerable to attack.” Ned sighs, rubbing his shoulder. Jory landed a good hit on his right side, he’s sure it’ll bruise. “The longer they’re out there, the more people we put in danger.”

“Ah, yes,” Rodrik agrees, but his voice takes on a peculiar tone. “Indeed, the smallfolk will be in danger. Farmers, merchants, even the local craftsmen—and _craftswomen_.”

“Rodrik,” Ned says in warning, eyeing the master-at-arms.

“My lord.” Rodrik has his eyes trained on the sparring men. “There’s been more speculation of late concerning your bastard.”

This truly has gotten out of hand. He should have brought an end to these rumors as soon as they started, but what was he to say? He would not risk Jon’s life by entertaining any rumors of his lineage and had decided long ago to never confirm or deny the hearsay about his son. But before Antonia, folk assumed that Jon’s mother was already dead, and there was no greater story to the boy's existence.

Lord Stark has no idea where the whispers about Toni stems from, but now, people seem to think he’s involved in some great and tragic romance. Ned’s love life had never been the source of so much interest, not even after Ashara Dayne’s abrupt death. He can only hope that by ignoring these rumors they will fade with time—but what if he is to see Antonia again? The rumors are sure to start up once more. As much as Ned tries not to think of her, he has a feeling that their paths will cross again (and again, and again).

 _Maybe it is a bit tragic_. He thinks of her face, and what she might say to him if she catches wind of this gossip.

Ned leans back against the railing, sighing.

“Gods, Ned, you sigh like a lovesick girl.” Ser Rodrik comments in a low, amused voice.

Lord Stark stiffens, and scowls at the master-at-arms. “Rodrik—”

“You there! Widen your stance, boy!” Rodrik walks away to interrupt the sparring match before Ned can get another word out.

* * *

“Were you really at Pyke? That would make you a Northern lass.” Grumpy, her favorite patient, peers at her disapprovingly. “You’d look like the winter rose if you tried wearing a damn dress.”

Toni hums, not really listening. She’s heard this spiel about the way she dresses from everyone in Westeros, from Maester Luwin to the east district hookers. “Dresses aren’t really my thing. Not good in a fight, either.”

“You see? You’ve even got her wolf’s blood.”

“Wolf’s blood?” Toi looks up in confusion. For one terrifying moment, Toni thinks he means _werewolves_. “You’re joking, right?”

“Never mind you,” Grumpy shakes his head and sucks in another rattling breath. She considers boiling tea for the patients to help with the cough. “Would you believe I was one o’ those soldiers fightin’ for this shithole city? Fat lot of good it did me once I caught death.”

His words stunned her for a moment. He looks so frail right now, but there is a hardness to his eyes. Toni knows enough fighters to recognize one. For a moment she thinks about asking for his name but dismisses it at once. “You did good work,” Toni says quietly. “You can’t see it now, but Lannisport is being rebuilt as we speak.”

“Well,” he grumbles, “There wouldn’t be any rebuilding if we hadn’t let it bloody fall.”

He sounds… bitter. Toni doesn’t like it.

“The Greyjoys are cowards,” She continues flippantly. “They didn’t come to Lannisport to conquer it, they came to burn it to the ground. The Lannister army held the line. Without you, there wouldn’t have been anything to rebuild at all.” And it’s true. Lannisport has a long way to go, but its foundations are strong, and the people are still here. They can come back from this.

Toni can help them come back from this.

She watches Grumpy in silence. “Hm,” he grumbles eventually. “What’s your name again, girl?”

“Toni,” she replies, amused. He’s never bothered trying to learn it before. “Or Tanya,” she adds.

* * *

In the morning, Toni wanders the eastern docks, talking to traders and salesmen. Then she goes to the western half of the port. The name ‘Gill’ keeps popping up. He’s some great mason from Golden Tooth, the same one that redesigned Casterly Rock. He’s rich as a mason (now a lord?) could possibly be, but his buildings are nothing to scoff at. His assistant shuts the door in her face, of course, but she gives her name before she’s rejected.

She goes to two other masons and leaves with the same response, and by midday, Toni is fuming.

Rejection is not an option.

The problem is that she’s more of a bauble to the people of Lannisport. A funny girl with funny hair, one who likes helping whores and the infirm. Toni already has designs in mind for half a block of apartments and stores; a payment schedule to work out the costs between builders, residents, and investors—but she’s just some woman here. She’s friends with bastards and fishermen.

No one will listen to her.

But she does what she can. The dock workers like her, as do the artisans and blacksmiths in the area. She works on the docks, on the boat, on the beach fixing nets. She looks after bastard kids and bruised call girls—that part pains her the most. No one protects the girls, and it’s usually nobles that hurt them the worst.

Toni and Frenna return to a tavern, children thundering up the stairs. It’s been expensive to stay here, but not uncomfortably so. Leta’s cousin’s husband owns the place. “Tell me about the city guards. You know a few that come by the House.” The House being the pleasure house Frenna and her friends work at. It hasn’t been fully rebuilt yet, but the girls are smart. They know their Johns and find places to meet some clients regularly. It’s how they’ve kept afloat without proper housing these few weeks.

Frenna hums, fiddling with a lock of her curly hair. She’s strawberry blonde, and if she had more freckles, she could be Pepper’s sister. “What do you want to know?”

“Who’s the nicest, who’s the most talkative?” Toni supplies, and then asks, “Are any of your men from Cornfield, Tarbeck Hall, Feastfires?”

“Silverhill?” Frenna suggests, though she looks tense. “There’s a Serret from Silverhill.”

Toni shakes her head. “Too far. And I bet he’s a dick, judging by the look on your face.”

“That he is,” Frenna agrees tartly. “Probably the richest one I’ve met, but foul as anything. I’m not sure what sort of folk you’re looking for, Toni.”

She shrugs. “I’m not sure either, but I’d rather know who’s a friend and who’s not.”

“Oh, but what about the Paynes?”

“The… Pains?” Toni repeats, dumbfounded. “Is that another hall that Tywin fucked over, like Castamere?”

“No, silly,” Frenna grins, “House Payne, of Lannisport.”

Toni gives her a hard stare. “I thought the Lord of Lannisport died in battle?”

“Oh, he did. And he’s got no heirs. There’s still a few Paynes around, though. Ser Cedric, for one, and his sweet little squire.” Frenna explains. As she talks, a few armored men shuffle towards the bar, so she keeps her voice down. “If Cedric hadn’t pledged himself to Lord Tywin, he might’ve been Lord of Lannisport by now. He’s the fourth son of a second son, so he never expected to inherit anything, but Lord Tywin’s also too stingy to reward him with Lannisport for his service.” The woman rolls her eyes. “If you’re wondering who’s the most talkative, it’d be Ser Cedric, but he’s not a watchman.”

Interesting. She’ll keep an eye out for him, but for now, Toni needs better connections than that. “Are you sure you don’t know any decent knights?”

“Lord Tywin don’ like our kind, m’lady,” she reminds Toni worried. “And his men are loyal to ‘im first. You won’t get far talkin’ to his men.”

“So there aren’t any guards you like?” Toni asks desperately. “None that fancy you, none that would turn a blind eye for your sake?”

Frenna tilts her head. “I don’t know what you mean. What would they need to do that for?”

Toni shrugs again, feeling a little helpless. “I’m only asking.”

* * *

There’s an old training yard near the cliffs, beyond the docks, and Toni carries swords for the hedge knights that practice there. When she has time, she practices with them, learning more about the fighting styles they use—but mostly she’s interested in the swords, and pesters the local blacksmith about his work.

“You could make the steel harder than that if you’re using it for a sword,” She points out to the blacksmith, Arty. "Higher carbon ratio would help."

“It’s strong enough as it!” Arty barks at her. “I’ve told you before, it can’t be done without makin’ it too brittle.”

“Wanna bet, old man?” Toni laughs as he blusters, but misses Jorgen terribly.

* * *

Three of her patients die. The frumpy woman that kept ordering leeches pulls through, but Happy, a sweet old lady with the gentlest voice, passes away overnight in silence. Dopey, being dopey, manages to break his leg trying to sneak off to see his young wife. Since he’s recovered from the illness, the sisters have been urging him to leave, as a broken leg could be cared for at home. Toni uses her savings for supplies and space in an artisan’s workroom and returns to the tents with a proper wheelchair, one with buckles so Dopey’s poor wife can bind him to his seat.

Grumpy lives. Toni doesn’t get to see him off because apparently he woke up one morning and decided he was done with being deathly ill and simply _walked away,_ that stubborn fool.

The pox dwindles, with no new cases in the past week. Toni isn’t certain if that’s a good way tracking the virus, but the fact is that there are only half as many ill people in the tents now, and more Silent Sisters have arrived from Oldtown to help care for the rest of the infected.

She sees off Sleepy with a bottle of Dornish red and for a moment, she feels proud of herself.

* * *

He dreams of Antonia more often than he ought to. Of course, he ought to not think of her at all. Just a strange woman he knows nothing about.

But Ned does know things about her. He knows she is familiar with warfare. He knows she is educated and well-raised by the way she speaks, but also foreign and perhaps unaccustomed to the Seven Kingdoms. He knows she is strong and quick-thinking, making her a fine soldier. And he knows the ferocity of her spirit. That was plain to see from the moment they met, and it is perhaps why she is so hard to forget.

He still remembers the look on her face on the beach. _Gods_ , he will never forget her face.

He never knew that eyes—her eyes, brown eyes, dark and thoughtful and secret—could strike him as profoundly as a blade. She looked at him with pain and love and passion and he ceased to think, at that moment, of anything but her.

And thus, she curses him. He returns home to greet his wife and his newest babe, and thinks of Antonia. He sits with his sons and teaches them of the horrors of war; Robb asks him about his scar and Ned thinks of Antonia.

He looks at Jon and wonders if Antonia would protect him as fiercely as she protected Talla.

He deals with the grievances of the people and thinks of Antonia petitioning for better steel trade or the building of better roads. (She would come alone and look him in eye, Ned knows this for certain). He talks with Maester Luwin about restocking the supply of herbs, and he thinks of Antonia, picking cicely to use after her next bar fight.

Worst, though, is Catelyn. He does his husbandly duty, of course, but he cannot shake the guilt hanging over him, following him as closely as a shadow.

 _I did not kiss her, did not touch her, and yet…._ He can hardly face Cat. For the sake of their children, he does not avoid her, but the friendship between them has waned, as it did when Ned came home with Jon. Catelyn is a shrewd woman, and though Ned has not been unfaithful, she knows that something stands between them.

He sits in the godswood beneath the oldest heart tree. A hot spring stretches in front of him, the water disturbed and frothing while his children play. He rarely gets time for these little pleasures, and so he watches them indulgently as Robb coaxes little Sansa to dip her feet in.

His wife comes and sits at his side wrangling with Arya, the squirmiest babe he’s ever seen. Only a year and a half and tiny as a doll, but this child wants nothing more than to dive head first into the water. His wife hums with amusement.

“It’s the wolf’s blood,” she teases, holding Arya securely in place so the girl can kick water at her brothers. “Get him, Arya, he needs to wash his hair anyway,” she cheers as another kick sends a spray of water over Jon, who cried out in dismay with a smile on his face.

Jon was not in the pool with them, though. Ned remembers Jon spent the day practicing with sticks in the training grounds. And Catelyn pulled Arya out of the water early, as she’d quickly tired herself out and needed a nap.

He doesn’t look at his wife now but keeps his eyes on Robb and Jon as they act out a story to amuse Sansa and Arya. Today, it’s a mythical tale of Bran the Builder, tricking giants into building the Wall and locking all the monsters out of the North.

“If the next one’s a boy, we shall name him Brandon,” Ned says, his arm wrapped around her waist. Catelyn had asked.

Instead of smiling, instead of nodding dutifully, she asks, “For you brother, or for tradition?” There are, indeed, many Brandon Starks in his family’s history. Catelyn did not know this.

“Both,” Ned answers, but in his heart, he knows it is only for his brother. “We can call him Bran.”

“Maybe he shouldn’t carry a name with so much history,” she says kindly, knowing his thoughts. “Honor your brother, but don’t burden your son with this.”

It is good counsel. He heard something similar from Maester Luwin. “What about Howland?”

She snorts with laughter, resting her head on his shoulder. “I see you aren’t a very creative man. Howland, after your crannog friend, Robb, after your king…”

“Anton,” he suggests recklessly, finally looking down at her. “After my wife.”

Toni rolls her eyes. “You know what?” She leans close, her voice a playful whisper, “I hope it’s another girl.”

They continue as they were, with four children squealing and play-fighting in the pool. Ned awakens from the dream so slowly, he doesn’t realize it didn’t happen until he sees Cat at breakfast, trying futilely to feed Arya mashed apples.

* * *

It’s been two months since Toni settled in the Westerlands.

A merchant, his servant boy, and a Lannister guard have a disagreement one morning.

Maybe the guard was persuading the merchant towards a better price. Maybe he was within his rights to a discount and some respect for the honorable work he does to protect this trader’s livelihood.

But where were the Lannisters when Lannisport burned? Honor and respect didn’t hold the bloody gate when the Greyjoys came.

The merchant had a mouth, but was he disrespectful? Did he hear those nasty rumors floating around town, or was he sullying the Lannister name himself? What about the boy? Was he learning these false accusations too? A boy should have manners. A boy needed to be taught some manners. A merchant ought to know his place.

A city watchman deserves respect.

The girl is hysterical by the time she finds Toni. _Tanya,_ they say, _she helped in the sick tents, she’s the closest healer on hand_ —what Toni sees is a young girl with blood on her hands, a desperate plea on her lips, and the fragments of a horrible story.

A merchant with a destroyed shop. A boy beaten half to death. A Lannister guard with a chip on his shoulder and bloody, damning knuckles.

Toni shouldn’t care, she doesn’t have to care. But she lives just a street away from that shop, and she could have protected them if she’d been given the chance. She should have protected them.

The girl guides Toni to the crumbling remains of a bathhouse. Some homeless men and women are huddled in corners, but she’s been brought here because the boy is there, bleeding and bruised. _Syra_ , someone cries, _that’s Syra, you must save him._

Toni steps around two sleeping girls and kneels at Syra’s side. He’s a strange-looking boy for the Westerlands, dark-skinned with coarse, curly hair. _He came to Westeros after fleeing slavers in Naath._ He works for a leather craftsman— _and does an excellent job, incredibly skilled for someone so young._

Now he’s deathly quiet, shaking in shock, and it’s one of the worst sights Toni has ever seen.

Toni instructs others to get clean clothes, boiling water, any more medics or healers they know. She disinfects her hands with rum and orders someone to start making a paste from cicely. She looks over Syra, checking for broken bones, internal bleeding, and he screams about _his hands, his hands,_ and she looks at them—

His hands are a mess. Not unfixable, but mangled and swollen and there’s _nerve damage_ —

_“I can’t work! I can’t work, oh R’hllor, kill me!”_

She should have protected this boy. She should have protected them all, and damn the consequences. It strikes her, then. Burning like lightning, resonating deep like thunder. All this time in Westeros, she has been trying to fit into a slot she cannot fill. It doesn’t matter if the rules don’t allow her to help, Toni shouldn’t care that the guards are all corrupt and the system is against her. This world looks at her and expects an ordinary woman that can keep her head down and know her place, and _Toni can’t do that._

Toni is not just some woman, she is not just some commoner, she is Iron Man and an Avenger and she is going to help these people if it kills her.

 _Good luck trying to save the whole continent,_ Jorgen once said to her.

She’s going to save the whole fucking world.

* * *

Toni is exhausted that evening, but she goes out anyway. She sidles up to Wylls, the owner of a modest market on the third dock, and buys him a pint of ale.

“Nothing for yourself, Tonya?” he asks, accepting the drink.

She shakes her head. “Too strong for me,” she passes, “But I hear you have a stronger constitution.”

“You’re a gem, Tonsy,” he dips his head in thanks, and his gaze lingers on her chest. “But whaddya want from me?”

“An investment,” she says, and her smile is bright and hungry. “Times are tough these days, aren’t they? Yet you still find it in your _heart_ to share cod and lamprey with the girls.”

It’s an unsaid, unacknowledged thing: this port wouldn’t survive without brothels, gambling rings, and underground fights. Lannister can boast all he wants about the perfection of his empire, but there is no escaping the dark underbelly of society.

The girls, the whores, the ones that dawdle by Wylls’s marketplace and bring potential customers by. Sailors, traders, noblemen—they come ashore for all sorts of products, including the women. City watchmen have power over everyone, but the women have power too. A different sort of power.

_Toni will take what she can get._

The merchant grins. “A girl thinks she can rule the world with her teats! I don’t do business with whores, Toni.”

“Yes you do,” Toni arches an eyebrow, waiting for him to dispute it.

“Not this kind of business,” Wylls rolls his eyes. “Though if you want a romp, you should consider speaking plainly.”

“Your fish is the same as that Braavosi, Kyval, but he’s drinking Arbor gold tonight because some nobleman bought all his snappers today on a whim.” Toni sinks into the cushion next to Wylls and directs his gaze to the corner booth where Kyval sits. “The girls are an advertisement for everyone around them. But I’m coming to you instead of Kyval because you are not him. You don’t spend your coin on cheap thrills, you spend it to make a profit. Invest, and I will deliver.”

Wylls chortles. “What is there to invest in? Truly, Tonya, you have this much faith in your whores? ”

They aren’t hers. Toni wants to stab this man through the eye. She gifts him with a sweet smile instead. “If you change your mind, come find me here tomorrow night.”

It’s not only about whoring yourself. It’s about eye candy. Toni has the other women wash their faces and tie up their hair neatly. The House is only half-built, but inside, they serve oysters and crawfish from the docks. Toni teaches her friends how to act in high society—the vocabulary, the accent, the way to hold your shoulders back and look as frighteningly beautiful and important as the Black Widow.

And when they hang around Kyval’s stand, the girls do nothing overtly sexual. They just smile and allure. Good looks and sophistication can get a woman very far.

In the end, it’s more of a coincidence than anything else, not that Wylls knows that. A petty lord has a thing for platinum blondes and flocks to Kyval’s stand like a moth to a flame because today is Enya’s day to make rounds.

Enya admires trinkets and other merchandise innocently. She’s young but not new to her line of work, and not new to being seen as especially rare by her clients. Something about _Blackfyre blood_ , whatever that means. The lord is only too happy to purchase two dozen lobsters from Kyval to please her. Enya leaves with the man, and Kyval leaves with too much coin to care.

Wylls gives her a hard look when she meets him the next night, his nostrils flaring as he tries to work out what she’s done. “What’s your game, Tanya? What’re you trying to do here?”

“I know an opportunity when I see one, Wylls,” Toni tells him. “Do you?”

Toni accepts Wylls’ investment graciously. And Kyval’s. And three other fishermen. She distributes the money in calculated purchases and payments. Toni’s good at the numbers. Better than anyone, really. Enya asks that Toni keep track of her money—and Frenna’s, and Katty’s—to make sure that the women she lives alongside are cared for. Kyval, who is far more charismatic that Wylls, eventually goes to Toni in order to keep track of his profits as well. Many merchants end up referring her to Lannisport’s Master of Coin for installments, and soon Toni builds up a reputation as a decent bookkeeper.

You’d think better finances would help, but not in Lannisport. Not within the feudal system. The taxes in Lannisport are steep, and lords have a vice grip on the economy. Smallfolk stay small because they’re only left with enough coin to scrape by.

Toni sits down with Kyval, Wylls, and three other shop owners to convince them all the re-file themselves as a single business. Guilds are outlawed in Westeros, but to file under a singular business? All she needs is approval from the Master of Coin for the port. If she sends the request with a small bag of gold coins, within a week they could all be established as co-owners of the East Fishing Co.

“That is madness, Tanya,” Wylls all but snarls at her, on the second night of negotiations. “You can’t think that no one’ll notice we’re not paying our dues. It won’t matter to change the words, Tywin will send out his dogs and hang us up by our toes!”

“Or he’ll send the Mountain, and we’ll be dead,” Barth, another fisherman, cuts in. He peers at Tanya curious, smoking a pipe. “You must realize that already, though.”

“He would notice,” Toni admits, “If we were filing as a company in _Lannisport_.” Then she looks pointedly at Kyval.

The others turn to him, interest and excitement rising in their eyes. The Braavosi pouts, and Toni grins, leaning back in her seat. “How well do you know Crakehall’s lordship again, Kyval? Close enough for him to _shave your balls if you asked it of him?_ ”

The men roar with laughter; Kyval’s been gloating over his trade deal with Crakehall for as long as she’s known him.

They can file in Crakehall, and there’s nothing that the tax collectors in Lannisport can do about it besides informing the Lannisport Master of Coin to notify the Crakehall Master of Coin to re-check his records and provide an accurate figure for the tax estimates of its trading ships. That alone would take weeks, even if someone notices them right away.

“It’ll still get back to Lannister,” Wylls points out, rubbing his bearded chin. “Them lords are quite careful with their coin, m’lady. Lannister like their gold.”

“He’ll get his gold. I’m careful with numbers,” Toni replies. “But Lannisport’s Master of Coin is not.” And then she goes on to explain how completely fucked Lord Norrey’s finances are because he spends everyone’s money on Dornish wine and prostitutes from Kayce.

_Toni will take what she can get._

* * *

She sits with Syra twice a week. Toni and two other local healers set the bones in each of his hands, and Toni casted each hand with a hardening poultice to keep him from moving them at all. There is no way of knowing how much damage was done, but Syra is young, and there is a possibility he can regain some dexterity with time and physical therapy.

The boy is despondent. Not angry, not frightened, but resigned.

Toni _hates_ it.

“What do you care?” he demands, knocking her hand aside when she checks on his ribs. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know,” Toni snaps. “Validation, probably. You better fucking get better, kid.”

“What’s a kid?” Syra shoots back, still annoyed.

“A child,” Toni rolls her eyes.

“I am _not_ —”

“You’re fourteen,” Toni cuts him off. “You made it all the way to Westeros before you were twelve, you got yourself a skill set and a paying job before you’ve kissed your first girl, and now you’re gonna waste away on my fucking cot just before your hands hurt?”

“My hands ARE RUINED!” He bellows. _“YOU CAN’T FIX ME, YOU BITCH!”_

Toni tosses aside the gauze in her hands, getting up into his face. “ _YOU WANNA BET, ASSHAT?!”_

* * *

It’s maybe her fifth month in Lannisport, though sometimes the days blur together for Toni.

Nothing’s official and all the work she did could fall apart at the drop of a hat, and yet now she’s the master of coin to everyone working on the east docks, from mariners to craftsmen, to armorers and prostitutes. She gives Norrey a warning, and the thought of losing favor with Tywin seems to be enough to make him cave. He still despises Toni, but since when is that new?

She’s loved and hated and revered and cursed— Tanya the Bookkeeper, Tanya the Cunt, the gem of Lannisport.

Toni always did like being infamous.

She sits down with two masons, the same two she helped demolish a building with, and gives them the designs for two blocks of apartments and stores. She goes to the docks to shows them a payment plan between the merchants and the builders. She goes to the sailors of the East Company and writes proposals to expand their businesses northward. She approaches mariners and other local businesses, petitioning for money to build up a security detail that might actually protect their interests.

They listen, because they have to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, there's a lot of OCs here. I promise I'll introduce more canon characters!! They're part of the plot!! I have a plot!! 
> 
> I sprinkled in a lil bit of Ned perspective because I love him and I want this to become Ned/Toni at some point, though that might not be the only Toni pairing in this.
> 
> Ignore how convoluted Toni's business endeavors are, I just imagine she's a jack of all trades and is gonna fake it till she makes it.
> 
> TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK. I need feedback and validation.


	12. Hearsay

She’s never spent much time with the wetland workers until now. It’s ugly work, and most folks avoid the marshlands just north of Lannisport. Toni watches from ankle-deep mud, a crab cage in her hands. She’s been testing out different designs for catching fiddler crabs but finds herself looking at the men that aren’t fishers, cheerfully working at the edge of the marshland.

“Fools, the whole lot of them,” a man huffs, nodding towards the smallfolk. They’re building tiny wooden homes in the muck.

“Why are they fools?” Toni asks. “Oh, and where do I put all these crabs?”

“They ain’t old enough to remember how bad the storms get during winter,” the crabber grumbles and then looks up, scanning the field. “Oi, Rhion! Help the lady with the crates, boy.”

A younger man sloshes through the mud, already carrying a basketful of crabs. Rhion is a Westerland kid through and through, with bright blonde hair and cheerful emerald eyes, though he doesn't have the aristocratic looks of the Queen or her father. “Aye, Hobb. You’re Collins, ey?” He extends a hand to her.

Toni eyes him skeptically. “I am,” she replies, shaking his hand firmly. His palm is almost as callused as her own. She hasn’t met someone this cheerful for a while, and she didn’t expect to find it in a teenage crabber covered in mud. “Take these back to be cleaned, please.”

“Yes, m’lady,” the boy grins, filling his basket further. Toni and Hobb watch him leave, wading through the mud with more energy than any of them.

“Gods, to be fifteen,” Hobb shakes his head. “Bet he’s just had his first girl or something.”

Toni rolls her eyes. “You said something about the storms, Hobb?”

“Aye. Tends to flood the flats here, creeps on yeh when you least expect it…” 

* * *

“Why hasn’t Lord Tywin sent his men after you yet?” Syra asks her later that day. His hands have healed well. Toni is testing his dexterity by teaching him how to write. “In the end, the numbers cannot add up. He must notice.”

“They do add up,” Toni says simply. “And if they don’t, well, everyone has something to lose if Tywin looks for answers, including Tywin himself.”

“How’s that?” Syra frowns.

“The brothels, mostly. They’re illegal, and we pay no small sum for his men to overlook it.” Toni explains. “In fact, brothel owners pay so much in bribe money, I’d estimate it makes up a third of Lannisport’s revenue.”

Syra’s eyes grow wide. “There are not _that_ many brothels here.”

“Yeah, but Tywin hates brothels more than any other lord. Haven’t you ever been tempted by something _forbidden?_ I sure have.” Toni gives him a playful grin, but the boy freezes like a deer in headlights. Oh, there’s a story here. “ _Syrashonne_ , I think you’re blushing,” she informs him, delighted by this development.

“I—I am not.” he looks down at his parchment, completely flustered. She's glad she overheard someone using his full name. “Can we go over this sentence again? My lines are crooked.”

Toni bites her lip but presses no further. “Let’s start a new one. _A recurved wall reduces wave overtopping by deflecting back sea water_.”

Syra instantly narrows his eyes at her, as expected. “What is a recurved wall?”

“It’s a wall that deflects waves back into the sea,” Toni explains flippantly, leaning back in her seat.

He scowls. “But what is it? What does it look like?”

Toni leans forward, itching to grab the charcoal stick. “Show me what you think it has to look like,” she says, nodding towards the parchment, already filled with drawings and diagrams.

“You’re talking about the northern beaches,” Syra says, looking at her for confirmation. “More folks have been building on that land lately since the water levels haven’t risen in years.”

“The water levels haven’t risen since summer started and the storms stopped,” Toni corrects him. “The houses won’t be protected by dunes alone if there’s a storm.” She remembers petitions in Malibu for new construction to protect the beaches. In the end, some rich family with a summer house by the water paid for most of the structures, but not before there were half a dozen shitty construction plans proposed.

Syra huddles over the paper, drawing a long rectangle, a slanted line for the shoreline, and a square with a semi-circle carved out of its side to represent a cross-section of the wall. “ _This_ sort of curve?” he asks, tracing out the path of water when it reached the shore.

“Close,” Toni grins. “In reality, you need something more angular, depending on your building material. You can’t recreate a smooth concave surface and retain any structural integrity if you’re building with brick and mortar…”

Sometime later, after an afternoon of civil engineering, Syra leans away in his chair and rubs the back of his head.

“What is it?” Toni prompts him, already familiar with the gesture. He only does that when he has an inappropriate or strange question. “You can ask me anything, kid, you know that.”

“It’s not really a question. Or, maybe it is.” he looks at her carefully, apprehension in his dark eyes. “So, I know you are a soldier. Sort of. No. You joined the Northern army is what I mean. You didn’t go back North, but you were there before the Greyjoy Rebellion. Yes?”

Toni arches an eyebrow. “You’ve been asking around about me.” She’s almost flattered by his interest. “You’re right, I lived in Torrhen’s Square for a while before I came here.”

“Yes. And I overheard someone say you fought with high lords, that you saved lives and helped them take Pyke.” Syra goes on. “So you’ve met some Northern lords?”

She chews on her lip, considering. “Just one lord. Ned Stark. And a drunk priest.” The rest of them she knew less about, like Mormont or Reed.

“So you know Lord Stark already,” Syra states. “He’s one of the lords invited to the trade conference in Flint.”

Flint is a castle on the southernmost edge of the North’s boundaries. The trading company is doing well, and the co-owners recently discussed proposals for expansion. They agreed to send invitations to both the North and to Dorne, but Toni didn’t have much hope for working with either kingdom. Dorne hated the Lannisters, and the North did not trust southerners. But the letters were sent, and Toni let Syra look them over to practice his letters.

“Well,” Toni eyes the boy curiously, “Seeing as Lord Stark is the Warden of the North, it’d be little rude to not inform him. We’re only looking for trade with coastal houses, but they’re all his bannermen.” She hopes Bear Island might be agreeable to more trade. They’re a frustratingly self-sufficient people, but the Mormonts are a reasonable family. “Although, I’m not sure he’ll know it’s me that’s asking. The North knows me by a different name, in fact.”

Toni Collins, Tanya Collins. She’s not relying on her familiarity with the North to broker any deals.

“Antonia,” Syra says her name so casually, but it still startles her. “That’s your full name, right? I overheard that too.”

Toni stares at the kid for a moment. “Yeah,” she eventually croaks out. “What of it?” She realizes that Syra has yet to ask his question. “You keep mentioning that you overheard all these things.”

The Essosi boy fidgets in his seat, drumming his fingers on the table as his dark brown eyes flicker up to her face. “You said something earlier, about being tempted by things you can’t have. Like—sex things.”

Usually, Syra is pretty eloquent for a foreign teenager. But he’s still a teenager. Toni rolls her eyes. “Syra, if there’s someone you like—”

“I’m not talking about _me_ ,” Syra says hastily, eyes wide. “I just—I thought it might make sense? That you laid with Ned Stark…”

Toni’s eyes widen. “ _Syra_ …” What the hell gave him the idea—

“—and had his bastard, Jon Snow?”

 _What the everlasting fuck._ Toni is so thrown by his question, she forgets to panic over the _‘laying with Ned’_ part and just looks at Syra blankly. “Jon Snow? He was born before I even went North.”

“Yeah,” Syra shrugs, “But Jon Snow was born in _Dorne_ , so... “

“I—I wasn’t in Westeros for Robert’s Rebellion,” Toni elaborates. She hadn’t known that the boy was born in Dorne, though. “And I’ve never had a baby at all, just to be clear.” Syra frowns contemplatively, as if he doesn’t entirely believe her. Toni shoots him an offended look. “What the hell, Syra? I wouldn’t abandon my own baby.”

“I wasn’t thinking that,” Syra shakes his head. “It just—it made sense for a moment. Like a tragic love story.” What the _everloving fuck_ was he talking about? “Just think of it, Tanya. You fought with the North in Pyke, and maybe you fought a few years ago as well, and it is why the soldiers respect you. And you meet Lord Stark on the way, perhaps in the Riverlands. Or Harrenhal, at the tournament that started the rebellion. Maybe he was not even married yet. And you only found him again months and months later, and you cannot take care of the child. You pick fights too easily, you want to help people, and you fear for your son’s life if he is too close to you. So Lord Stark accepts responsibility for your son but cannot have you because he has become Warden, and has taken a noble lady for a wife. And you did not see him again until years later, when you fought alongside him once more, in Pyke.”

Toni takes a moment to pick her jaw up off the floor. For half a second, she wishes it were true.

“But none of that happened, apparently,” Syra says nonchalantly, though he eyes her carefully. “Because you were still in Essos. But I cannot see any other reason for Ned Stark to have a bastard. Even in the south, he is known for being very honorable.”

Southerners seemed to care far more about gossip than the North did. For as long as Toni had lived in Torrhen’s Square, she’d never heard a history of the rebellion in so much detail, even if it was false conjecture. “I met Lord Stark after I picked a bar fight, half a year before the Greyjoys rebelled,” she tells Syra softly, looking down at the table. “I snuck into the army, and Ned didn’t know it was me when I saved his life, but he found me afterward and figured it out. I don’t know how everyone else found out, but that part’s true enough. So, while I know him, I’m not part of his—sad love story.”

When she looks up again, Syra is staring at her with a strange, knowing expression.

* * *

She hasn’t thought of Ned very much. She hasn’t given herself the _time_ to miss him, so when her trade company sends an invitation to Flint, Toni is preoccupied with fishing taxes and finding hedge knights to spar with. Syra’s questions caught her by surprise, but that’s just how gossip is. Whatever rumors that the people of Lannisport spread about her, Toni doesn’t care. Smallfolk like their scandals. It got her thinking about Ned again, though.

She hopes he’s well. There’s been little news of the North, but maybe that’s a good thing. Toni wonders if he ever thinks of her. Or if he remembers the beach at Casterly Rock. But these are passing thoughts. She has too much else to think about. It’s unlikely that she’ll ever meet him again.

“Oi, Tanya!” Wylls barges into her room, the small apartment she’d finally been able to afford. Wylls waves a piece of paper at her. “We got Stark’s approval for the conference!”

“Good,” Toni says automatically. “Does it say which of his bannermen would be in attendance?”

“Everyone we requested, except the Manderlys,” Wylls hands the paper over. “Winterfell’ll send men too. Stark wants to oversee this himself. It’ll be more work for our lot, hope we have the coin to host the bloody Warden of the North.”

Toni’s breath catches. “That’s—” she composes herself rather poorly, but Wylls isn’t very observant. “That’s fine. This is all unprecedented for the North, I should’ve expected that Winterfell would try to supervise us.” They still have over a month to plan it out, but it seems too soon. Syra’s outlandish story floats through her mind.

“Aye. I’ll leave the letter with you, but I better go inform the others,” Wylls agrees cheerfully, and then he’s gone before Toni can think to say goodbye.

Suddenly, Toni can’t concentrate on any of the papers on her desk. She tries for a few minutes, but eventually gives up and puts away her work for the night. She goes through her evening routine in a stupor.

On the beach at Casterly Rock, she remembers the way Ned had gazed at her. She could see him very clearly in the moonlight that night, and she could see very clearly how much he wanted her. Pupils blown wide, the intensity of his voice. She wouldn’t have minded stealing a kiss or two from him that night, just to see what it was like. She would’ve done it too, had it not been for—well, _Ned_.

_“Why are you here, Ned?”_

_“Because you’ve been hurt.”_

_He looks so heartbroken. “It torments me, that you are so good but so reckless.”_

Ned wasn’t just attracted to her. He—he _cared_ about her. As a person. As a friend. Probably as much as she cared for him, if not more.

The thought was… electrifying. Like discovering uncharted waters. A part of Toni wants to plunge in, to know how deeply she could feel for him, and another part of her screams _too dangerous, too risky, he’s married_ you _harlot._

* * *

She dreams of Ned’s rare laugh and her legs wrapped around his waist. She sees barefoot children running about and wants to cry. Then there’s blood dripping from a face, and Toni awakens with a startled gasp.

* * *

* * *

Three men converse quietly on the Street of Steel, their words lost in the cacophony of people all going about their day. Tobho Mott is the only recognizable figure, as the other two are shrouded in dark cloaks unbefitting of the time of day. A child sits between them, quiet and confused.

“If it were anyone else, priest, I’d help you, but it would be inappropriate if anyone knew.”

“This has nothing to do with the King. I owe a debt, and this is how I mean to repay it.”

“You don’t even know if it’s true, though. It’s all word of mouth, _hearsay_. The girl only _claims_ to be—”

“We’ve no proof of the boy’s bloodline either,” the priest says stubbornly. “So you cannot refuse to help based on the boy’s connections.”

“Oh, but jus’ look at the fella,” Mott grumbles, patting the boy’s shoulder. “He’s more Baratheon than the Crown Prince.”

Jon Arryn stares at the smith with piercing eyes and then turns to the red priest. “If you can promise me his protection, I will allow you send him away.”

Thoros of Myr presses a hand to his heart. A scarlet sword glints at his side, catching the interest of the small, blue-eyed boy. “I swear it, by R’hllor and all the other names you give Him. _She will keep him safe._ ” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorty but a goody!! look at me, cobbling together some PLOT


	13. Proposals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are too damn nice to me. I don't deserve all these wonderful comments, especially since I've taken like, three months to freaking upload. 
> 
> My gift to you all is this 6000+ word monstrosity.

Toni frowns over the tiny scroll of parchment in her hands, peering at the broken red seal once more. It is a simple message, really, but she stares at the words far longer than she means to.

Well, she meant to get out of Lannisport eventually.

“Tonya?” Someone calls her from down the hall. A young girl pokes her head into the room, alarmed. “There’s a knight here to see you!” She whispers.

Toni stills, setting the cryptic note aside. Her hand drifts to the side of her desk, where she keeps a decent-sized knife. “Do you recognize him?” She asks calmly. “Is he armed, upset?”

The girl shakes her head vigorously. “He won’t show his face… He has a sword, but he don’t look angry. Just nervous, I think.”

What the hell did a knight have to be nervous about? “Send him in, and fetch Qoryn on your way out.” In case things got hairy, she would rather have some back-up ready to assist.

After a few moments the door opens again and a young man in Lannister colors walks in. “Lady Tanya, good day,” he says simply, bowing shallowly. He tugs off his hood.

Oh.

She knows this face. Her hand twitches towards the underside of her desk, though she knows her security detail—a sellsword, but a relatively loyal one named Qoryn—is waiting just outside the room.

“Who sent you?” Toni asks coolly.

The man smiles cheerfully. “Ah, that’s what I’m here to discuss.”

* * *

Something about the invitation from Flint is strange to Ned. The wording, perhaps. But then again, the request itself is unusual enough. A meeting between Westerland shippers and Northern lords. It’s obvious enough that the shippers are trying to circumvent the Westerland lords, but the letter itself is oddly compelling. By the time Ned received the letter he also received notices from two of his lords, requesting his permission to participate in what was sure to be an interesting conference. With the gravity of the dealing they seek, Ned could not allow such a conference to take place in his lands without actually being there to see it.

To be frank, he still feels strange in his position at times, trying to juggle all the wants and needs of so many bloody houses. He only just returned from a frustratingly long trip, hunting down bandits—four of which got away in Barrowton, though at least it seemed they had left the North.

“What business do you have with Lannister men?” Cat asks him in bewilderment when he approaches her with the offer. She is seated in his private solar, fretting over a pricked finger from her needlework.

“None,” he answers plainly. “Which is what makes this so intriguing.”

“You musn’t trust them,” his wife frowns, her brow pinching together. She often wears that expression these day when she speaks with him. “I wouldn’t allow it. You should put an end to these Lannister schemes before it gets out of hand.”

“Then you agree I should go,” Ned surmises briskly, getting to his feet and rolling up the letter. “I cannot risk this meeting taking place without my presence. If this is the work of Tywin, he could easily contact any house without my knowledge.” To be honest he’s not convinced this has anything to do with the Lannisters, but the point stands. Still, he isn’t certain he wants to leave Winterfell so soon. He is a busy man, but he ought to make time for his children.

“You are my lord husband,” Catelyn says stiffly, bowing her head. “It is your decision, and I will support you.” She does not approve, though, that is clear to Ned.

“I’m bringing Robb with me,” he continues. This, at least, garners her attention. “Perhaps Theon as well. They should learn more of the dealings between houses and lords, and this visit should be quicker than most other negotiations.” At most, it would take two weeks, and that was only if Lady Mormont was especially stubborn.

“You can’t!” Catelyn cries, leaping to her feet. “There—there must always be a Stark in Winterfell!”

And so there must. But he is only traveling to Flint, still part of the North. “Sansa and Arya will remain here. As will you, Lady Stark.” He glances at her belly thoughtfully. It’s been only a week since Cat missed her moonblood, still too early for Maester Luwin to confirm it.

Her expression seems to shutter, as a shop owner might in anticipation of a storm. “You’ll leave me here… with the bastard?”

 _Why must she always call him that?_ He understands her resentment towards him, for souring their union so early into it, but— _You should resent me, not the boy for existing._ Ned steps closer, irritation prickling over his skin. “Would you rather I take _him_ as well?” He tries not to snap at Catelyn, but she still turns her head lower and away as he speaks.

“...Yes, actually.” Cat says quietly. “I can’t bear to look at him.”

 _He is seven,_ Ned thinks in frustration. _If she cannot accept him now, will she ever?_ He turns and strides towards the door. “Very well. I’ll take Robb and Jon.” The Greyjoy boy is still sullen and unruly at times, and often uncomfortable around Ned. He would understand if the boy wanted to stay away from a gathering of the same men that sieged his home.

“Yes, husband,” Cat says softly, back to fidgeting with her fingers. Ned knows better than to take her soft voice as truth, but he also knows she will not argue any further. “Good night.”

He shuts the door without answering.

—

Jon looks at him with the most joyous look Ned has ever seen on his face when he tells him about their upcoming trip. “I get to go, too?” he asks in a whisper, daring to hope. It is such a respite from the cool indifference of his lady wife. _Perhaps I should be teaching Jon to govern, the same as Robb_. Ned pushes the thought aside as soon as he has it, knowing that he is only thinking out of spite.

“Yes,” Ned nods solemnly, looking between him and Robb. “Theon has decided not to join us, so you’ll have to take good care of each other, won’t you?” They nod fervently. “This not a leisurely journey. Lord Flint is kind for hosting so many, and I expect you both to be on your best behavior.”

Robb, unable to contain himself, lets out a whoop of joy and crashes into his father’s legs. “Thank you father! We’ll be good, I swear it, can we listen to the talks? Can we explore the grounds? Is Jon allowed in the library, he’s been trying to read a lot more lately, but not me—am I allowed on the training grounds? Is Jory coming? Can he teach me archery yet…”

Even as his son rambles on, demanding a million answers of him, Ned cannot find it in himself to regret this choice.

* * *

“Syra,” she calls to him quietly from her place on the roof, figuring out how to best attach the reeds and straw to cover the exposed beams of wood. The brothel is almost completely finished now, finally able to house the women—and their children in a separate wing.

The boy’s head pops up from the scaffolding. He’s not actually helping, but he keeps asking questions about the parchment he’s reading that he’s ended up following her around all day. “Yes, Toni? Oh, do you know when the septon wants this back?” Syra doesn’t actually care for religious texts, but it’s the easiest reading material to borrow.

Toni pauses, and then her lips quirk up into a smile. “We can take it back tomorrow. I wanted him to ratify a few legal papers.”

Naturally, Syra is interested. “What legal papers? I don’t remember transcribing anything, do you have a copy?”

Toni wipes her brow and shakes her head. “I had to go to a registered scribe for this one instead of writing it myself. I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want to do once East Company can solidify their trade routes.”

There is a pause between them as Toni builds up to speak, and then—

“You’re going to leave,” Syra says plainly, making Toni’s head snap up to his. A small, determined frown is set on his face. “I saw the letter.”

Toni stills. Syra sets down his reading and clambers onto the roof. “You read it?” Her mouth pulls into a disappointed line. “Why?”

“I only looked because I saw the seal. It didn’t make much sense, but—there’s something waiting for you, isn’t there?”

 _Someone, yes._ “I forgot you were a follower,” Toni mutters.

“I am not,” Syra says softly, flipping through the septon’s book. “Not really. And I am glad R’hllor does not call to me.”

Toni doesn’t answer. She hadn’t even realized the significance of the blood-red wax seal on the letter until she’d read it, and even now, she’s wary about what answering it could mean. It feels as though a storm is brewing and Toni has yet to decide what she’ll do about it. “I don’t know when I’ll be back, or if I will. Lannisport is still healing, but it’s healing well.”

“The East Company won’t survive without you,” Syra insists urgently. “You take on so much of the burden yourself.”

“Means I’ll need a good successor,” Toni shrugs, unconcerned. “Someone to pick up their slack. Literate, speaks well. More importantly they’ll need to think on their feet and always look for answers.” She stares at Syra pointedly until he stops frowning at the horizon and notices.

His mouth falls open. “What?”

She fights back a grin. “What do you think of the name Syra _Collins_?”

“Wha—” He almost drops the septon’s book off the roof, and scrambles to catch it. “Toni, I do not think you would pass as my mother.”

She clicks her tongue and shrugs again. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. But I still need someone that can take over my share of the Easties and take on my role, so I think we’ll go with the nephew-aunt relation. The son of my sweet dead brother, uh, _Eugene_ Collins—”

“That’s _awful_ ,” Syra interjects, spluttering. “My father’s name was Jyra.”

“Jerold Collins?” Toni tries.

“Worse,” Syra laughs, and then he keeps laughing, and then he’s sort of sobbing too and Toni wraps her arms around him and they sit there for a long while. The next day, Syra returns the septon’s book in mint condition and a document is noted in the records of Lannisport and Oldtown, confirming by the will of the Seven that Syra Collins is the heir apparent to Tanya Collins, his aunt and last living relative.

* * *

At their next shippers’ meeting, Toni is greeted with solemn, sour faces. She sets down her papers and frowns. “What happened?”

Several traders have a silent conversation before Kyval is chosen as their sacrifice and he replies, “Hollys was hurt today on the training grounds. She’ll be out of work for the next few weeks.”

The words startle Toni. She thought they would be breaking bad news to her about their shipping contracts through Crakehall. Hollys is a brothel worker, a friend of Toni’s, though she sometimes runs errands for the sea traders. Hollys would never go near hedge knights and sellswords that aren’t in the brothel. Toni’s brow furrows sharply. “Explain.”

The Braavosi grimaces. “You know how she’s been doin’ work for that armorer, Arty, on the side?”

So Hollys went the grounds to deliver lances and shields. She’s been working more odd jobs to help feed the kids, wants to see what she can make a living off of. And many of the girls still walk without the same security that the traders use, as it’s bad for their business.

Toni sinks into her chair. “But... hedge knights know better than to hassle one of Arty’s messengers.”

“Yes,” he agrees, the discomfort clear in his voice. “It was not a hedge knight the roughed her up.”

Toni leans forward, tight as a bowstring. “Kyval. Tell me everything.”

—

Ser Robert Brax of Hornvale, a landed knight, walks onto the training grounds one day and picks a fight with a few men practicing in the old courtyard. He chooses to do so on a sunny morning, while Hollys is there handing out new practice shield to a few hedge knights.

Even the best hedge knight wouldn’t stand a chance against castle-forged steel; against a tall, broad-shouldered young man that ate and drank well every day. No one really wanted to fight him, knowing all this, but Brax was insistent. Possibly drunk as well, which made everything worse. He insisted, and then he demanded.

The hedge knights lose the fights one by one, but Hollys loses the most when she catches the eye of a landed knight that thinks he can take whatever he wants. She told him to stop, that she wasn’t working right now, as eyewitnesses have attested to. Hollys told him she works for Arty, that she works with the East Company, that she works with Tanya Collins. He heard her. He did not stop.

—

“Robert Brax, you said,” Toni repeats quietly, dangerously, as she lets the story steep in her mind. She takes a seat at the table, and can see the traders relax minutely at how she’s settled herself. Her eyes dart to Kyval. “Is that right?”

“He didn’t wear his sigil, but we know his face,” Kyval affirms tentatively, and then stares at Toni as she pours herself a generous glass of rich red wine. “Tanya, easy there—”

And Toni fixes him with a look so cold that it stops the normally-cheerful Braavosi in his tracks. Dark eyes flit across the room, daring any of the merchants to question her drinking habits again. Satisfied with their silence, she takes a long pull from her wooden goblet, draining it in one go.

She takes a deep breath. “Robert Brax,” Toni begins slowly, “...is the same guardsman that destroyed Farrister’s workshop.” _And hurt Syra_ , as every merchant in the room knew by now. Several eyes flicker towards the boy sitting at the edge of the room, only allowed to observe the meeting rather than participate. He sits rigidly in his seat, fingers clutching the edge of the table to tightly that Toni knows they’ll ache all day after this.

The traders bristle and murmur amongst themselves. She's only recently acknowledged Syra as her heir. Wylls has a particularly foul look on his face, and Toni knows he’s fond of Syra as well. The Essosi teenager has helped lessen the load for all the shippers by taking over most of their record-writing and accounting. Toni takes a smaller sip from her glass and continues. “At the time of the incident it was more important to help Syra and look into salvaging the shop, which we’ve done with some success.”

“But Brax still hasn’t been dealt with,” Lanser, a man that deals mainly in clams and crabs, speaks coldly. Even with a simple, legal business like his, Lanser has no love for the ‘guards’.

“What do you suggest is done this time, Tanya?” Wylls asks.

“Hm,” Toni mutters, refilling her goblet thoughtfully. Her eyes are bright as she turns in her seat to face the boy from Naath. He meets her eyes solemnly. “You’re up, Collins. What do you suggest?”

Syra’s blank expression doesn’t change, but there’s a shift in the air. The traders seem to hold their breath, watching as the teenager is given, for the first time, a chance to choose a path for them all. “I think… it is time for Sir Brax to settle his debts to the people of Lannisport.”

—

_It happens like this._

It’s been a week since the incident—the new incident—when Toni seeks out the guard. She wears breeches and a loose-fitting tunic, with sleeves that cover her arms but don’t restrict them. It’s a bright, cloudless day, and he’s sitting at a round table with three others playing cards. She takes a brief look at the money on the table, seeing at least 300 dragons.

She looks at him directly as asks, “Are you Ser Robert Brax of Hornvale?” Already recognizing the sigil on his shirt. A purple unicorn on a silver field.

Hideous.

He’s built tall and sturdy, with a sharp jawline and a cruel smile. Brax frowns at her forwardness, but looks up and down her body in interest. “You’re speaking to a city watchman. Watch you mouth, m’lady—or at least make better use of it,” he raises his eyebrows suggestively.

For a moment, Toni stands there, thinking _At least this won’t be hard on my conscience_. “I’m here to inform you of your debt, Ser,” she says stiffly. “As it stands, you have an outstanding payment of two hundred golden dragons and seventy one silver stags, owed to a few citizens of this city.”

“My _what_?” Brax demands, pushing away from the table. The word _debt_ is a powerful thing in this part of Westeros, and all the guards know better than to rack up any sort of bill they couldn’t pay. Toni takes a small step back, and two other guards chuckle at the show while the third stands calmly beside Brax. “What in seven hells are you talking about, wench?”

He’s already getting riled up, his face blotchy and red. Toni keeps are arms loose at her sides, walking between the soldiers idly. “I mean that you need to pay the bill, and pay it _now_.”

“What fucking bill?!” He narrows his eyes. “What, are you talkin’ about that stupid cunt? Are you another whore? What sort of owner sends _another_ whore—”

“My name is Tanya, and I’m here on behalf of my _friends_.” Toni cuts him off carelessly. “That’s all you need to know. If you’re having trouble understanding, I can break it down for you. If you don’t have the money, we can work out a payment schedule.”

“Look, girl—” one of the other guards starts, reaching his hand out. She jerks away from his reach and pins him with the coldest look of warning she can muster.

“Sit down and be quiet, Ser, if you know what’s good for you.” Toni says crisply, and _oh_ , the _look_ on their faces. Toni stares at the man cooly. Short blond curls, a long nose, Ashemark’s sigil. She knows this knight too, but he’s a decent one. “Right now this is not your business, Ser Marbrand. I don’t think you want to be involved.”

Marbrand looks conflicted and vaguely alarmed, and that is enough. He takes a half-step back, and then raises an eyebrow at Brax. “What’s she talking about, mate?”

Brax’s entire face is red. Toni answers for him. “Several weeks ago you wrecked a leather workshop, and more recently you attacked a defenseless woman. You owe a debt to the people of Lannisport. Four golden dragons for the saddle you stole. Two dragons for the side table and forty-three for the custom workbench you ruined. Twelve dragons for the leather splitter, three for the hand-press, seventeen for the un-stretched leathers. Eighty stags for the sharpening stone, fifteen stags for the rivet setter, the flat-head tool, the taper maul, the round maul, seven hundred stags for the rest of the horse tack. A workshop like the one you wrecked takes years to assemble.”

The soldier looks ready to murder her. _Good_. Ser Marbrand shifts away, closer to the other guards. “Well that’s only… eighty-five golden dragons, though,” one of the guards points out suspiciously. “What’s the rest from?”

Toni stares at Brax, waiting. His eyes flash in worry, and then there is nothing but desperate rage.

He knows. He _knows_ , and he will not get away with it. “The rest is a year’s wages for the boy you almost killed and the woman you beat so badly, she’ll be on bed rest for the next two weeks.” Toni looks at the other three guards. “My **_friends_**. If you don’t take my word for it you’re welcome to speak with them yourself.”

One of the other guards leans back in his chair and laughs. “This one’s got a hell of a mouth!” he chortles, and slowly, Ser Brax relaxes as the guards laugh with him. “Tanya, you said? I’ve a question for you. How do you plan on gettin’ any of that coin? What’s to stop me an’ Brax from cutting you down where you stand?”

Toni nods, acknowledging his point. “If you’re so sure you want to get involved… I’m not sure yet, Ser. I was going to appeal to your sense of honor, but seeing as you have none—”

“That’s your second strike, _cunt_ ,” the unnamed Ser warns her, shifting in his seat. “I’ll be happy to give you a lashing if you disrespect me again.”

 _That’s your first strike for interrupting me_. Blue and yellow sigil, a Lefford. Toni tilts her head to the side, her eyes flickering to the cards and gambling money on the table.

“If Ser Brax refuses to pay for his actions, then I would issue a formal complaint to his house and his liege lord, and see that he goes to trial.” It’s a bluff. His liege lord is Tywin fucking Lannister. But hey, it might give him a spook if he thinks Tywin Lannister might get on his case. And _there_ —Toni watches him carefully, watches him pause and frown at the thought of involving the Lannisters.

“But if you’re so keen on beating a woman in broad daylight, Ser Brax—do you like to gamble?”

“What?” Brax sneers.

“We can make a bet out of it.” Toni proposes, nodding to Lefford and Marbrand. “Who can make the other yield first? If I win, you pay the bill. If you win, Brax, I’ll pay you the amount I’m demanding and accept any punishment you deem fit.”

Marbrand stares at her like she’s crazy. “You’re saying you have that sort of money lying around anyway?”

Toni shrugs. “I’d rather Ser Brax demonstrate some common decency. For the people.”

“Deal!” Brax snarls, and lunges at her with his sword without warning.

Toni leaps back, the blade missing her by a wide margin. She straightens up and makes eye contact with Marbrand. “You heard him, Ser, we have a deal.”

“Robert, stop,” Marbrand says in warning, eyeing Brax as he rears back for another strike. Lefford holds Marbrand back with a nasty grin. “She’s unarmed, this is wrong. You’ll kill her!”

“Good!” he screams, hacking at her again. He lunges, thrusting his sword at her middle, and only skims the side of her dress. Toni yelps in surprise, and Brax grins terribly, going in for another attack.

But really. Toni isn’t an idiot, not even when she’s angry.

She’s backed up beside a cart when Brax lifts his sword high above his head. As he plunges it down towards her head, Toni dives for the haystack in the cart.

His sword tears through the wooden cart and gets stuck in the splintery remains. He’s using a longsword, as Toni was told he would, and he’s big enough to cause a lot of damage with a single strike. Toni scrambles up, spitting hay out of her mouth—and drawing a lightweight sword from its scabbard. It shines silvery-blue with a curious melting pattern across the flat sides of the metal, and she wields it easily, as though it’s light as a practice weapon.

—

_“You could make the steel harder than that, if you’re using it for a sword,” Toni points out, leaning against a post as the blacksmith, Arty, stokes the furnace. “A higher carbon ratio would work fine.”_

_“It’s strong enough as it!” Arty barks at her. “I’ve told you before, it can’t be done without makin’ it too brittle.”_

_Toni crosses her arms, eyeing the metal heating over the fires. Syrashonne is further in the smithy, poking around places that Arty still won’t let Toni see. “You could start with smaller rods,” she suggests, “Maybe six or seven piece, each a meter long, and…” she rattles off her thoughts for a while, the blacksmith interjecting every few sentences to refute her._

_He scowls at the young woman, hardly paying any attention to the armor he’s polishing. “I still think it’s folly,” he says stubbornly. “Even if you’ve got it all worked out in your head, that don’t mean it’ll go as you think.”_

_Oh, Toni learned that lesson years ago. She knows that nothing ever goes the way it’s planned in life, but the surest thing in this world was this, right here. Elements, heat, and time. She can be the master of the whole world in a smithy. “Wanna bet, old man?” Toni teases him. He blusters at first, but then rises to his feet, a jar of polish clattering onto the table._

_“In fact, I do,” He sets down his rag and gestures to the forge. Toni balks at the open invitation. “Go ahead, lass. I heard you one-upped that wanker, Tobho Mott.”_

_Toni smiles beautifully,_ wolfishly _, and not for the first time, a Westerosi peers at her and wonder if she could be a Stark._

—

“What the _fuck_?” Lefford barks from the sidelines. Marbrand looks entirely out of his depth.

Toni spares the other knights a quick look. “I don’t gamble,” she answers with a wicked grin, and then all her attention is on Brax’s furious face. He swings again, and she deflects it with her gauntlet, the cloth sleeve tearing away from her arm.

Brax blinks at her arm for a minute, and then scowls once more, dismissing the strange armor.

“Brax, you fool!” Marbrand screams. “She’s played you!”

“Where the _fuck_ did she get a sword like that?!” Lefford bellows, half-indignant, half-awed by the gleaming blade.

Marbrand grits his teeth, eyeing the weapon warily. “That’s a bastard blade, innit?” Beside him, Lefford curses.

—

_“So,” Toni crossed her arms and eyes the finished blade on Arty’s workbench. Syra hovers outside the shop this time, muttering up a storm and a plan. “A longsword is the most common weapon for a knight or sellsword. While a greatsword is longer, it’s often too heavy for the average man to lift.”_

_“Most ancestral blades are greatswords,” Arty agrees quietly, polishing the gleaming edge of the new weapon. “And they’re kept as antiques more than anything. It’s a bit useless unless it’s Valyrian steel, which is light enough to carry into battle.”_

_She remembers the white-silver edge of Ned Stark’s Valyrian greatsword. She hadn’t known what Valyrian meant at the time, but the coloring of the sword had interested her. And while she can’t make Valyrian steel, she can make something_ damn close _to it. “But even then it requires a taller wielder to hold properly,” she shakes her head. Toni is only 5’4” compared to Ned’s 6 feet or so._

_“Aye, that’s where the bastard blade comes in,” Arty gives her a crooked smile. “A sort of joke between us armorers and knights, it is, to fight with a bastard blade.”_

_“Why’s that?” Toni picks up the well-crafted sword with one hand easily. “It’s useful, has an edge over the common blade.”_

_“Exactly,” Arty shrugs. “Bit of a kick in the teeth to those highborns fightin’ pretty with castle-forged steel, only to find out they’re half a foot short.”_

—

Toni deflects an easy strike with her sword. Every swing he takes is brutal, but she knows he’s already tiring. It’s about three o’clock in the afternoon, and the angle of the street means that the sun is beating down on them both. Toni wears metal gauntlets and a bit of leather armor for her legs, but Brax? He’s decked out in chainmail and thick, fine leather all over. He adjusts his grip on the pommel of his blade, and Toni knows his hands are slick with sweat under his gloves. She positions herself with the sun at her back, watching him squint under the glare of her newly-polished sword.

Breathing in deeply, Toni shifts her stance, her back to the bright sunlight, and lunges.

The street is almost empty, people ushering out of sight, already warned about what’s to come. No one comes to aid the knight, not even the other guards. 

She doesn’t kill him. No, she forces him to drop his sword, and by that point he’s too tired to block his face. Toni isn’t much of a brawler, far more comfortable with sparring matches that rely on wits and redirecting momentum. She takes a few hits here and there—is slammed into that broken hay cart too, fucking hell—but she uses her elbows to strike at his head, knees him in the gut, seizes his arm and  _heaves_ him over her shoulder into a throw. 

She straddles him on the ground and punches him cleanly, _precisely_ , makes blood drip from his lip, and cheek. If she were doing this her own way, she would wrangle his arm behind his back and force him into submission without so much brutality.

But this is what was asked of her.

—

_“If we’re going to do this,” Lanser says, chewing on something like tobacco. “This needs to be done right. There can’t be any room for error. We’re already risking our businesses as is, and if we draw Lannister’s attention by having his man beaten for money, he will go after us all.”_

_Syra understands. “We can’t hire a third party and think it won’t come back to us. Even if we are careful, Tywin Lannister is bound to discover our business and the East Company’s growing influence.” He glances at Toni pensively. "But there is a flaw in this way of thinking."_

_She gives him an encouraging nod._

_“Tanya,” he says slowly, a look of excitement, of impish joy, emerging in his eyes. “I have a plan. Will you help me?”_

—

Her knuckles ache, even behind the padding over her gloves. She cut his cheek open a little, and the blood streams freely between her fingers, splatters her tunic, reddens the street beneath them.

“Stop, stop!” Brax begs, flinching away, curled into a ball. “I yield, I yield!” He sobs. He didn’t stop when Syra asked him to. He didn’t stop when Hollys begged.

Toni stops.

She half-drags him to the gambling table and presses his face against a chair. Four or five sellswords have joined her on the empty street, a preventative measure in case Marbrand or Lefford felt especially offended. “I am taking... all the money on this table,” Toni says calmly, her chest heaving slowly. The side of her jaw throbs with pain, she supposes he clipped her at some point. “Do you think that’s a fair amount?” She looks to Ser Addam Marbrand, who seems to be the most sensible of the remaining knights.

“Some of it’s mine,” he says with a frown. “And Lefford’s, and Serret’s.”

Toni takes another deep, calming breath. She rolls her neck, already knowing where her bruises will form. Brax struggles for a moment and she tightens her grip until he stops twitching. “And now Ser Brax owes _you_ for it, unless you’re willing to forgive his debt.” She musters up every etiquette lesson she ever took, and aims for the most sophisticated British accent she can pull off. “In Lannisport, we don’t forgive debts. We pay them.” As does Tywin Lannister. Toni scoops all the coins into a single bag, provided by one of her sellswords. "And we look after our own if they can't do it themselves."

Marbrand stares at her, gobsmacked. “You’re absolutely _mad_ ,” he breathes, eyeing the sellswords warily. If he fought now, it would three against six, and in a fair fight he could beat her easily. But he seems smart. He must realize by the point that she has tipped the scale in her favor. “Lord Tywin will have you hanged for… this...” His pale eyes drift to the coin bag exchanging hands.

Toni passes the bag of coin to Syra, whose hands are healing but visibly scarred, and Ser Marbrand watches with stricken eyes. His face drains of color, and he says nothing.

Toni isn’t afraid of him going to Lannister. Syra was right, after all.

—

_“I know we must be careful about drawing the attention of the Lannisters, but... Tywin Lannister knows better than anyone what it’s like to be in debt,” the boy says, confidence rising in his tone. “His father was a much softer man, loaning money to anyone he liked and forgiving them when they default on their payments. Lord Tywin clawed back his family’s reputation, building up the terrifying house that we know across land and sea. He has no sympathy for debtors. And **that** is what our fight is about.”_

—

Toni wipes her brow and looks at Ser Addam. “Sooner or later someone was going to push back,” she tells him plainly. “Your buddy here is lucky. Go to Lord Tywin, ask him to get your money back. _Do you really think a man like him wants to pay your debts?_ ” She seizes the back of Brax’s head and lifts it off the table, whispering harshly into his ear, “ _Are you worth that much to the Lord of Casterly Rock, Ser Robert?_ ”

“F-f-fuck— _f-fu_ …” Brax stutters, hysterical, trying and failing to curse her.

She releases him gently. The knight is shaking under her fist. “That’s what I thought.” She peers at Marbrand again. “Tanya Collins,” she repeats slowly, coldly. “I’m sure one of you will seek me out again after this, perhaps on your own, in some twisted attempt at revenge. I truly hope that you don’t. But if you do, well, you know my name.”

The four knights are frozen in place as Toni leaves, flanked by the sellswords. Syra walks beside her, close enough that their arms brush against each other. He looks at his feet, tense and shaking slightly. From excitement or terror, she isn’t sure. “Eyes up, Collins,” she says to him quietly. “Nowhere else to look but forward.”

* * *

Catelyn sees Ned off with dry eyes, a wailing Arya in her arms and a sniffling Sansa clutching at her skirts.

While her lord husband is away, Catelyn must run his castle. She has done so on several occasions, for months during the Greyjoy Rebellion, and yet she still feels like a stranger in this place. Her children wear grey and white of their father’s house, but sometimes, on warmer days, Cat likes to wear blue and brush her hair out until it shines like red fire. She misses the river water, the warm weather, her family’s smiling faces.

The household still treat her like a foreigner, with frigid courtesies. They are slow to thaw and quick to re-freeze, like the rest of the land. But she carries on. Her husband is a good and honorable man, and she has three healthy children. She’s Lady of Winterfell whether the people like it or not, and she will conduct herself accordingly even if she’s surrounded by bloody _Northerners_.

Cat shuts her eyes, trying to still her thoughts. She mustn’t complain. She should feel grateful to be given so much. Even if her husband brought his bastard into their home. Even if there are whispers that he’d taken up with a camp-follower yet again, after traveling to Pyke. Cat had felt so close to making a place for herself in this frigid land, only for it all to be swept away by those rumors and her husband’s damning silence.

 _Family. Duty. Honor._ She’s repeated her words so often, she thinks it might drive her mad. Resentment creeps into her thoughts every day.

 _Brandon_ would not have dishonored her like this. From what she remembers of the elder Stark, he was always smiling. He always spoke his mind. He was loyal to his family, so much so that it killed him. It was so easy to fall in love with him. But he died and she was promised to Ned in his absence. Ned, who is often kind to her, but also plain and reserved. Given time and trust, she thinks they could build a life together. Before the Greyjoy Rebellion, she had begun to think he _wanted_ to build a life with her. He was so pleased with the babes she gave him, and she welcomed him into her bed once more before he departed for Pyke, putting another Stark child in her.

Her time running Winterfell during the Greyjoy Rebellion had been the closest she ever got to loving her new home. The household respected her as her belly grew large; as her son and daughter grew up smart and healthy and _proper_. She gave birth to another girl, but the North was pleased—Arya Stark had the right looks, she was healthy, and the castle adored her. The war was won, and Cat awaited her husband and her future with a hopeful heart and a babe at her breast.

And then he came home. The servants whispered of a woman, a _soldier_ , a strange beauty in the Westerlands. Her lord husband wouldn’t look her in the eye, and she was too much of a coward to ask. Arya grows up _screaming_ , fighting—she is not yet two years old, but she is twice as loud and improper as Sansa ever was. Even the bastard isn’t so difficult to deal with. And the Greyjoy boy, _Theon_ , is a arrogant one as well. Cat avoids him if she can, and ignores him when she cannot.

In the end she is glad for Ned's quick departure. _I can try again_ , Cat thinks determinedly, absently rubbing the chill from her hands. She will run the castle _perfectly_ , and teach her daughters along the way. Maester Luwin and Jory can keep Theon busy. _And if I do well_ , Catelyn says to herself, her hand drifting to her belly, _Mayhaps the Gods will see fit to grant me another son._

 _Please_ , she prays to the Mother, to the Father. She isn’t sure what exactly she prays for, but she must keep trying.

“My lady,” Maester Luwin approaches with a letter in his hands. “A message from King’s Landing.”

* * *

Toni shuffles papers on her desk, not looking up as the Lannister knight settles himself once more in her office. “What’s this about?” He pauses, noticing the bruise over the left side of her jaw. "What happened to you, my lady?"

“Just a graze. I invited you here for a different reason." Her eyes flicker up to his green ones. “Syra, come in,” she calls, and her young protege enters from a side room. Lannister blinks at the boy, but shows no outer reaction to his presence. Toni stands, letting her chair scrape noisily across the floor as she throws an arm over Syra’s shoulders. “This is my nephew, Syra Collins.”

The young knight stands respectfully—good, she likes his manners—and offers a hand to Syra. “Hello, Syra. I’m Tyrek, son of Lord Tygett Lannister.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Ser Tyrek.” Her nephew answers civilly, shaking hands with a Lannister.

It almost sounds like the start of a joke: a Northern woman, a boy from Naath, and a Lannister knight.

But Toni knows better to think lightly of this meeting.

“Ser Tyrek says his father owes me a debt, and he came to me earlier to repay it,” Toni continues, sliding her hand to take a firm hold of Syra’s shoulder as she eyes the young Lannister. She can see the resemblance in the young knight's eyes, which are the same emerald green as an old, grumpy soldier she once helped. “But I don’t really think a sum of money can fulfill that debt, nor anything other material good. The Collins value other things far more. Isn’t that right, Syra? What do we value?”

Syra looks at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he looks at Tyrek with a smile.

“We value our friendships.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DAMN. This took forever to come together into a cohesive thing I could call a chapter. I'll add any clarifications to this end note if y'all are confused by any part of this chapter, I know it's a lot!  
>   
> NOTE: About Tygett Lannister. Apparently that fucker is canonically 39 in the year 289 (actually he dies earlier than that but whatever), and his son Tyrek is supposed to be Sansa's age. We are ignoring this. He's older than Tywin but didn't inherit the Rock because he had no heirs at the time of their father's death, I guess?? Tyrek is 19, while Cersei and Jaime are 27. Also, Ned is 26, Syra is 15, and Tyrion is 16. (he doesn't appear in this chapter but y'know. he's around)  
>   
> Things that are canon but I couldn't find space to write it in:  
> \- Addam Marbrand's POV, in which he falls half in love with Toni while also being completely terrified of her.  
> \- Robert Brax sobbing on the ground for a solid five minutes before Lefford drags him off.  
> \- Serret (who literally does nothing but watch Brax get wrecked) trying to buy a sword like Toni's only for Syra to shamelessly sell him the actual sword. He has yet to name it.


	14. TEST TEST TEST ya girl drew her own fanart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> imma fight AO3 i hate how the photo things work. anyway, i think i figured out how to do it?

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/141435577@N05/42764672444/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/141435577@N05/41673511980/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/141435577@N05/43481091251/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/141435577@N05/43481098181/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/141435577@N05/42576418805/in/dateposted-public/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO... if these images show up as I hope they do:  
> 1) the first dumb drawing i did, mostly to visualize armor rather than actually draw Toni. I still don't have a set design for her.  
> 2) another Toni, with less armor. still don't like the face tbh.  
> 3) Syra finding out he's going to become a Collins (i drew him a little younger than I meant to, though!)  
> 4) wow look at that, it's almost like Toni fighting in Stark colors during winter, that's weird. (early sketch of Toni, this time with longer hair?)  
> 5) how i imagine Ned to look!! i like how this one turned out
> 
> all in all i still can't draw my own characters but I think Ned looks good.


End file.
